were exceedingly beautiful. Having completed them, our artist then returned to Florence, when he decorated a vaulted chamber for Bongianni Capponi, with certain others for the same person in his Villa at Montici.
When Jacopo da Pontormo was painting, for the Duke Alessandro, that Loggia at the Villa of Careggi, whereof there has already been made mention in his life, Jacone assisted him in that work; the greater part of the grottesche and other decorations being by his hand; after this he occupied himself in various trifling matters of which it is not needful to speak further, the sum of the matter being that he spent the best time of his life in jesting, in buffoonery, in aimless musing, or in speaking evil, now of one person and now of another: art having just at that time fallen in Florence into the hands of a company of persons who thought more of amusing and enjoying themselves, than of the labour required for the success of their works; their principal delight being to get together in the wine-shops and other places, where, in their absurd jargon, they would decry the productions of other artists, or would censure the lives of those who laboured steadily and passed their time with respectable companions.
The chiefs of this party were Jacone, the goldsmith Piloto, and the wood-worker Tasso; but the worst of all was Jacone, seeing that among his other fine qualities he had that of maligning some one in the bitterest manner whenever he opened his mouth. Wherefore it could scarcely surprise any one, that from the proceedings of such a company there should in time arise much mischief, and as will hereafter be related, many contentions; in one of these Piloto was killed by a young man whom his offensive words had enraged against him, a most appropriate consequence of their disorderly habits.
The mode of life and proceedings of men thus constituted could not but render them unacceptable to persons of respectable condition; and they were in the frequent habit, I will not say all of them, but some at least, of lounging about under the walls, as do the wool-workers and other mechanics, playing at various games; or at other times they would haunt the taverns. One day, therefore, that Giorgio Vasari was returning from Monte Oliveto, a Monastery outside of Florence, where he had been to visit the reverend and very
