With what comfort he must have settled himself in his luxurious house on the Riva; how differently must he have felt from those prisoners in the Carceri, of whom we have spoken, when he gazed upon the broad harbor and heard the bustle of the port! That it all appealed to him is proved by the following extract from one of his letters:
"See the innumerable vessels which set forth from the Italian shore in the desolate winter, in the most variable and stormy spring, one turning its prow to the east, the other to the west; some carrying our wine to foam in British cups, our fruits to flatter the palates of the Scythians, and, still more hard of credence, the wood of our forests to the Ægean and Achaian isles; some to Syria, to Armenia, to the Arabs and Persians, carrying oil and linen and saffron, and bringing back all their diverse goods to us."
He soon gathered around him a choice circle of friends; Boccaccio came to visit him and remained three months. What a picture is presented to our imagination when Petrarch reminds the great story-teller of their "nocturnal rambles on the sea, and that conversation enlightened and sincere"! He urges him to come again in this wise: "The gentle season invites to where no other cares await you but those pleasant and joyful occupations of the Muses, to a house most healthful, which I do not describe because you know it." It is not thus that we are apt to think of Laura's lover, or of the author of the Decameron; but in Venice they seem to have been two quiet old men seeking peace and health.
An interesting occasion when Petrarch played an important part was that of the great tournament which terminated the festivities after the capture of Crete in 1364. He sat beside the Doge in a balcony behind the horses of St. Mark. The balcony was as splendid as the richest awnings and hangings could make it, and the ducal robes and crown were in strange contrast to the black gown and hood of the Laureate. Did he take pleasure in the thought that his fame as a poet would be known to future millions who would not be able to call the name of a single Venetian among the thousands who were there assembled? Surely it was a pleasant episode in Petrarch's life, this time in Venice; but it was all too short, and ended most unhappily.
After four years on the Riva, in that "house most healthful," a number of the patrician giovinastri—all infidels and much puffed up with their little learning—after discussing their philosophies with Petrarch came to the grave decision that he was "a good but ignorant man"! To us it is absurd that this great poet should have given a serious thought to such folly; but the same sort of young men had driven Marino Faliero to such straits that he turned traitor. Petrarch showed his pain and indignation in a milder way, by quitting Venice to return no more. This was certainly the worse for Venice, since he imparted to the Republic the only poetical association connected with its palmy days. No poet with a name to live was born of that nation of wise statesmen, bravo soldiers, cunning merchants, and glorious artists. We can but wonder if it would have comforted him to know that the first exquisite book from the Aldine press in Venice, more than a century and a quarter after his death, would be his own poems and printed in fac-simile of his own handwriting!
Petrarch retired to Arqua del Monte, a quiet little town in a valley of the Euganean Hills, where he lived peacefully, visited by his friends and enjoying the many proofs that came to him of the appreciation which the scholars of his time had for his character and works. In 1373, again he went to Venice with Francesco Carrara Novello, who was to make submission as the proxy of his father, after the treaty at the termination of the Carrarese War. Again, the Laureate addressed the Doge, the peers, and senators, as the Apostle of Peace; it was his valedictory at Venice. In July, 1374, he was found dead in his library at Arqua.
"But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he went;
As if he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He passed away as in a quiet slumber."
While thinking thus of the happenings on this very Riva five centuries agone, we pass through the narrow calle which leads to the campo of San Giovanni in Bragora. The pictures in this church are very interesting, and the font by Sansovino is beautiful; but to-day the Palazzo Badoer especially appeals to me, and yet one must almost regret having seen it since the restorers—Heaven save the mark!—have spoiled it. If the ghosts of the seven Badoer Doges ever walk this way, what must they think of the squares of red and white marble in which it is now dressed?
What a family they were, descended from Tribunes of the Rialto in the time of Theodoric the Goth; and to what good purpose they swayed the Ivory Sceptre during seventy-four years. It was Badoer II. who erected the first chapel in the Ducal Palace for the body of Saint Mark, which came to Venice during his reign. A daughter of Badoer IV. was an abbess of San Zaccaria, and many of the sons of these Doges entered the Church; but theirs was a proud, brave, just, and patriotic race, better suited to governing the Republic than to the offices of Holy Church. In their day the Doges were absolute monarchs, and the Badoeri gave almost constant domestic tranquillity to Venice, and won the hearts of the Venetians.