Is surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!”
Several hundred years after Tassoni, an American pilgrim went to Arquà, and added his own pleasant tribute to the thousand songs; protesting that—
“we cannot well figure to ourselves Petrarch, sitting before that wide-mouthed fire-place, without beholding also the gifted cat that purrs softly at his feet, and nestles on his knees; or with thickened back and lifted tail, parades loftily around his chair, in the haughty and disdainful manner of cats.”
Tasso also had his pet; sad, hapless poet that he was, there was need of all the comfort he could get. Doubt not but that often his tears fell warm on Pussy’s fur; and that in her companionship he found solace when other solace there was none. To this little friend he addressed a sonnet, begging her, since lamps were denied in his prison, to light him with her eyes.
Other famous Italians have shared the taste of these poets; among whom, probably, may be included Andrea Doria. Some writers assure us that he detested cats, and kept one only to remind him of the conquered Fieschi, whose badge it was. Be this as it may, the animal who sits beside him in the ancient portrait at Genoa has an undeniable air of well-being. If an enemy, it has been treated with respect; if a friend, it is also an equal, and returns the old admiral’s gaze with proud directness.
St. Dominic’s hatred of cats is more than offset by the affection which various popes have shown them. Gregory the Great had a much-indulged favorite, and Leo XII. had a number. One big cat of grayish-red called Micetto he presented to another friend of the feline race, the famous Chateaubriand, as a mark of his esteem.
Pius IX. also had his pet—a superb “gato soriano,” which was always present at his frugal meals, sitting beside him, and claiming its full share both of food and attention. A very pleasant sight it must have been, to see this benign old pontiff taking his passegiata in the gardens of the Vatican, with Pussy sedately pacing at his side. When, after a while, the link of companionship was broken, and Pussy paced from this world to another, no pet succeeded him. “I am too old for new friendships,” said his master; “moreover, death may come to me next, for my cat and I have both grown old in the Vatican.”
A still more ardent cat-lover in Italy was the aged Archbishop of Taranto, who died about the beginning of this century. His pets had their regular meals corresponding with his own; and a guest was once much amused by hearing him ask a servant during dinner whether the cats had been served. “Yes, monsignore,” the man gravely answered, “but Desdemona prefers waiting for the roasts.” Desdemona was a white Persian, both in color and disposition a complete contrast to her huge black mate, Othello.