The Little Painter

The boy's eyes gazed long at the man riding his horse on a high road, and he asked his sister: "Do you know, Caterina, that this horseman is traveling to the wondrous city?"

As for Caterina, she did not know what the wondrous city meant. It had reached her ears that there were many cities in the southern parts, and those, in the village girl's eyes, were large — but she did not believe them wondrous.

So she asked her brother Tiziano: "What is the name of that wondrous city?"

He answered in astonishment: "Do you not know that it is Venice, sister?"

The name of the city meant nothing to Caterina. And though she was older than her brother, she was no dreamer like him. All she knew was that frightening things happen in cities — people there perish of hunger. In the mountains, on the other hand, food is plentiful, though the people are not rich. So she said to her brother: "I do not know why you call Venice a wondrous city. Have you grown weary of living here?"

He answered: "No, sister. But painters live in cities. And if circumstances allow me to study under Bellini, the famous painter, I shall paint certain pictures that I burn with longing to set down." And since Caterina was a simple girl, she imagined that if a person had something to eat and drink, he ought to be content with his lot. So she answered him reproachfully: "You are forever repeating talk of painting in my ears and seeing things that no one sees but you — so much so that the villagers have begun to whisper that if you do not stop your fancies you will never become a useful man; and that is why your father wants to send you to his friend the cobbler, to learn his trade. There are many trades in the world besides picture-making and drawing!"

Tiziano shook his head and did not answer. He would spend whole nights thinking of a way to persuade his father to let him study painting. And a rumor had gone about the village that Tiziano was drawing mountains and valleys and other things on boards of wood or on stones — the village priest would praise him for drawing them — yet he could not make his critics understand that drawing in different colors has an effect far greater than drawing in charcoal!

It happened that the "Festival of Flowers" fell on the following day, so Caterina and her brothers Tiziano and Francesco went out to the edges of the village to gather flowers from the neighboring hills, and at evening they returned home carrying their colored armfuls in readiness for the festival.

While the children were in the flush of their joy, one of the girls said: "Have you heard that Salvador, the miller's son, is traveling to Venice to learn the craft of engraving? For his father has grown rich and does not want his own trade for him — the craft of engraving being, in his opinion, far more important than the trade of milling." Sishnir, whose uncle was a lawyer well acquainted with the life of cities, answered: "It never entered my head that Salvador loved engraving; and wealth alone is not enough to make a painter of a man."

A second girl replied: "Where there is neither money nor teachers, how can a person become a painter?"

And Caterina added: "That is what I answer Tiziano whenever he voices his hope of traveling to the city of Venice to study painting. I tell him that his father is not rich, and that he would do better to learn the cobbler's trade."

The children laughed, and one of them said: "If no teacher can be found for Tiziano, his gifts will go with the wind..."

Tiziano's face turned red, and he said to himself: "Yes, I have no teacher, but I can prove my ability if I am given the chance. If only I could get painting colors, I would make them stop calling me a dreamer, for I am utterly certain that I can paint a fine picture — and who knows, my father might be convinced and send me to study?!"

Paint was dear in those days, and his father's circumstances did not permit him to spend his money on buying colors for his son before the boy had mastered their use.

Then something happened that no one had reckoned on... On the morning of the next day — the day of the Festival of Flowers — the boy noticed colored stains on the stones near his house. They were the traces of the flowers trodden underfoot the day before! At once the idea entered his head of making colors from the juice of flowers. And while the villagers were merrymaking and dancing, he slipped away alone to the meadows to gather flowers anew. His sister saw him leaving the ring of dancers and followed him in secret to a hillock full of flowers, and asked him: "What are you doing here, Tiziano?"

He answered: "I want to paint!"

— "And how do you suppose you will paint without colors?"

— "I shall use the juice of flowers for that purpose. Here are the colors I have found — yesterday I saw their traces coloring the stone walk in front of our house."

I have said that Caterina was no dreamer. Yet she granted that he could color with flowers, for she too had seen their traces on the ground. And she said to herself: "It is a sound idea. I have heard the village priest say: 'Where there is a will,

there is success!'"

Caterina fixed her resolve to help her brother, and set about gathering flowers for him...

She left her brother to work alone in a solitary, abandoned house, and kept watch over the place to ward off anyone who might take it into his head to intrude...

No one knew that this small boy, painting with patience and steadiness, would one day win Italy her glory. All there was to it was that the villagers would see Caterina leaping for joy as she gathered flowers, and standing at the window watching her brother bent over his picture... painting!

One evening, as the shepherds were returning home with their flocks, Tiziano stood at the door of the solitary house and called to his sister, saying: "Come and see!" But no sooner did Caterina's eyes fall upon the picture than she gasped; solemnity came over her face, and she cried out: "Tiziano — it is the Madonna!"

— He answered: "Yes, it is the Madonna and her child. This has been my soul's wish all this while!" Caterina spread the news through the village, and the people flocked in crowds — so many onlookers that Tiziano's father could not get into the house. The throng was amazed, and they began to shout: where did he get the colors? Tiziano answered them: "I got them from the flowers; Caterina gathered them for me, and I colored with them."

Then the priest said that Tiziano, with the juice of flowers, had become a god!

When the father heard the title with which the priest had honored his son, he asked a villager standing beside him: "Have I taken leave of my senses, or is what I heard true?"

The outcome of it all was that his father sent him off to Venice, and the boy thereafter became the wonder of that city. His wish came true: he began to study under Bellini, and he went on painting for some eighty years. The colors he used were beyond rivalry. And he proved to the village folk that it is good for a man to be a dreamer, for dreams, when joined to will and steadfastness, bring forth wondrous works and open wide horizons.

And today, when they point to a statue facing the meadows where Caterina used to gather flowers, they say: "Behold the god Tiziano!" By this name the world knows him to this very day!