a March! Not only are the roads dry, the skies blue and the air as balmy as in summer-all three things that are very unusual at this time of year-but the trees are green and full of leaf, and their foliage already affords us shade from the heat of the sun, which has not yet climbed far towards the north. Yesterday, which was the Feast of Our Lady, I picked some quite large almonds and several ripe strawberries, which is more singular as none have yet arrived in the city from Arquà, where, as you know, fruit ripens earlier than in any of these parts. What is still more remarkable, the vines in this district have put forth not only eyes, but young tendrils, before the pruning-knife has touched them. The swallows have been here some days and the turtle, cuckoo, and nightingale have all been heard. If, as I hear, the Papal Court is on the way to Rome, you will have summer weather at Easter, which I for one do not envy you."

The wonderful beauty of the season, as Bembo told the Pope in another letter, made him less inclined to envy the gentle citizens of Padua, whom he saw returning from the Coronation festivities with faces flushed and tired by their exertions to secure a good place at the pageant. But these halcyon days at the Villa were already numbered. On the death of Navagero, Ramusio informed Bembo that he had been proposed as his successor in the important office of historiographer to the Republic. At first he shrank from undertaking so arduous a task, and pleaded his advancing years and ignorance of history in support of his reluctance. But his objections were overruled, and in June 1530 he was appointed to succeed Messer Andrea, both as historian to the State and Keeper of the Nicene Library, for which latter office his vast knowledge of manuscripts fitted him especially. God forgive you, my son, Gian Matteo, and my brother, Messer Giovanni Battista, for interrupting the sweet repose of this delicious life and the studies that are dearer to me than any dignities and grandeur. It is your doing I am persuaded, and I know that your motive has been an excellent one. But once I put out to sea again and take up this burden, I shall never live as peacefully as of old. . . . And believe me, it is no light task to write history-with any credit to oneself.'

...

2

During the next eight years Bembo discharged the duties of his double office with conscientious assiduity. His house in Venice became the meeting-place of the most famous scholars, and his writings attained a world-wide celebrity. Erasmus celebrated his praises as the brightest ornament of the age, and in his dreams 1 Lettere, ii. 200.

2 Ibid. ii. 214.

Aretino saw him throned on the heights of Parnassus and crowned by celestial spirits with a diadem of light. But henceforth his visits to the Villa were few and far between. Morosina and her children still spent the summer there, and Bembo joined them whenever he could snatch a few days from his official duties. Today I am at the Villa, and seem to be alive again,' he wrote one August to Gian Matteo at Venice. Here it is fresh and beautiful, and altogether delightful. I mean to stay here for a few days, and wish that you could leave your desk and come here with your boy Luigi.'

But all too soon, sorrows came to darken this happy home. Bembo's promising boy, Lucilio, died there one summer day in 1532, after a few hours' illness. I have lost my Lucilio,' the 'I stricken father wrote to his old friend Avila, my sweet and charming boy, on whom, as you know, all the hopes of my house were set. I cannot tell you what grief this unexpected event has caused me. . . . So in one moment all our hopes and dreams are shattered.' And in answer to Veronica Gambara's letter of sympathy he wrote: 'Certainly I have lost a little son, who more than fulfilled every hope I had formed of his future although he was not yet nine years of age. But I try not to murmur at the Will of God, and since my flower was doomed to die so soon, at least I thank Heaven that he was all I could most desire.' 1

Morosina never recovered from the shock of her child's death. Three years later she followed him to the grave, and was buried under a stately tomb in the church of S. Bartolommeo. Bembo was inconsolable for her loss.

'What shall I say, my dearest Trifone,' he wrote to his old and valued friend, in answer to your letter on the death of my loved Morosina? Before it reached me, I had turned for comfort to the Ancients, and tried to read the consoling words which they used at such moments. But this does me little good, for no sooner do I lay down the book, than I remember she is gone, and that I have lost the sweetest soul that ever lived. She loved me far more than herself and was altogether satisfied with my love, despising the gifts and ornaments of jewels and fine clothes which please other And this blessed soul was clad in the fairest form, and had the loveliest face that has ever been seen in these lands, or, perhaps, in the present time. It is true, as you say, that I ought to thank God who gave her to me for all these years. I try to do this, but it is impossible in one moment to lay aside the affections which

women.

1 Lettere, iii. 212, iv. 27.

VOL. XXXVII.-NO. 217, N.S.

6

are part of our being, and must remain with us as long as we live. I know how true your sorrow is, and realise how much you loved this fair and noble woman, and how deeply she on her part loved and honoured you. Farewell.'1

How deeply Bembo felt this bereavement we learn from the touching letter which he wrote to Ramusio, when he in his turn lost his wife a few months later. On returning last night from Praglia, where I had ridden for exercise and change of scene, I found the sad news of the death of your dear wife, Madonna Franceschina, awaiting me. I feel for you as a fond brother, who knows by experience how hard these partings are to bear. For when we are already old and want these sweet and faithful companions more than ever, it is a bitter and cruel thing to be deprived of them.' 2

The two children whom Morosina had left him were henceforth the object of Bembo's tenderest care-the boy Torquato and the little Elena, who grew up so like her mother that the sight of her lovely face often brought tears to his eyes. They still spent the summer at the Villa, in Colà's charge, and when, in 1539, Bembo received the long-coveted Cardinal's hat from Paul III., he came there to spend his last few days with them. The sight of these familiar places recalled the past vividly; he wrote his beautiful elegy on the death of Morosina and sent it to his intimate friend Elisabetta Quirini at Venice, begging her to let no one see the verses, or hear that they had been composed after his election. Then the new Cardinal went on to Rome, and in spite of the load of seventy years that weighed heavily on his shoulders, took up these new duties with his wonted ardour. 'I am well,' he wrote on Christmas Eve to Venice. This air is milder than ours and suits me better. I am about to be ordained and shall learn to say Mass to-morrow. You see how great a change God has wrought in me. '3

But amid all the glamour of Rome and the manifold interests of this new life, Bembo never forgot Villa Bozza. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to hear from the newly arrived Venetian Ambassador the latest tidings of Torquato and Elena, and above all of the garden. He insisted on hearing every detail of the children's life and charged Colà to provide the best tutors for them both, saying that money spent on education was always well spent. Unfortunately, Torquato was an incorrigible idler who hated the 1 Lettere, ii. 37.

2 Ibid. ii. 103.

3 Ibid. v. 225.

sight of a book, while Elena displayed an independent spirit that tried the patience of the nuns in whose convent she had been placed. I regret to hear,' wrote her father, that you have become proud and obstinate, and refuse to obey your teachers. This has vexed me greatly, because girls of this kind grow up so disagreeable that everyone dislikes them, most of all their husbands and parents.' Worse than all, Elena begged to be allowed to learn to play the clavichord, a request which the Cardinal sternly refused, saying that this was a vain and frivolous pursuit, unworthy of a modest and honourable lady. Besides which,' he adds, 'you will never play well, unless you devote ten or twelve years to this exercise, which you know would be impossible. And if you play badly, your music will bring you little pleasure and much disgrace. So give up this foolish desire, and tell your companions that you are not going to learn the clavichord for them to laugh at you.'1

On his seventy-first birthday-May 20, 1541-Bembo wrote to Colà, thanking him for all his loving care of the children, and rejoicing to hear that Elena was writing Latin verses and learning grammar, and that Torquato showed some taste for antiques, the sure sign of a gentle nature. This month he enters his seventeenth year, and is no longer a child, but a man. Elena, too, will be thirteen on the last day of June. Tell me if she is growing up as tall and beautiful as she promised to be. For certainly there is nothing dearer in the world to me, or that I love half as well as I do this child.' That summer was spent by Torquato and Elena with Colà at the Villa, where they were as merry as crickets. I am glad,' wrote the Cardinal, to hear that you are staying longer than usual at my Villetta, especially for Elena's sake, for this is one of the two seasons of the year when it is looking its best. I envy you not a little. But keep well and enjoy yourselves.' 2

It was the last summer which this joyous party were to spend at Villa Bozza. For Colà-good, faithful Colà-fell suddenly ill that winter and died. Elena begged in vain to be allowed to go to the Villa as usual with her brother in August, but was told that at her age this was impossible, and that she must stay in the convent until the time came for her to leave it for good.

The Cardinal was already looking out for a suitable match for his daughter, and in the summer of 1543 he obtained the Pope's leave to go to Venice, that he might arrange a marriage for the child whom my human frailty gave me.' In July, Elena was

1 Lettere, iv. 105, 107.

Ibid. iii. 374-6.

married at Padua, in her father's presence, to Pietro Gradenigo, a young Venetian of good family and excellent appearance.' The Cardinal paid a last visit to the Villa, which he had not seen for many years, and returned to his new diocese at Gubbio, not without a sigh for the old days when he was a free man and could live where he chose. After the birth of Elena's son in 1544, she and her husband went to Villa Bozza for the autumn, leaving the little Paolino, by her father's orders, with her cousins. Bembo took the keenest interest in his grandson, and gave Elena minute directions as to his clothes and food, begging her above all to see that the boy was not allowed to walk too early. Unfortunately the marriage had not proved altogether happy. The Cardinal was sorely disturbed to hear of his son-in-law's indiscretions, and could only recommend the young wife to be patient and gentle herself, while he begged Marcella to be kind to 'la poverina.' At his request, however, Elisabetta Quirini spoke seriously to Pietro on the subject, and did this with so much tact that the young man actually listened to her advice. After the birth of a second child, in August 1546, the young couple again spent the autumn at the Villa, to Elena's delight and her father's great satisfaction.

I am thankful,' he wrote to Gian Matteo in October, ' to hear what you say of my son-in-law, and especially to know that he and his wife are happy together. You may imagine how much I envy them for being at the Villa for the vintage, but as long as they are enjoying themselves, I shall be quite content.' And to Pietro he wrote: 'I can see you and Elena to-day at the Villa, enjoying this sweet and delicious time of year, and must own that I feel very envious.'1 The thought of his darling child spending these sunny autumn days under the grape-laden vines, on the banks of the swift-flowing Brenta, revived old memories, and made him long to see the place again. He wrote to Elena, telling her how much he hoped to come to Padua another year, and spend the summer with them at his beloved Villetta. But a few days after this he had a fall, from the effects of which he never recovered. Three months later on January 30, 1547-the great Cardinal died in Rome, and never saw Elena or the Villa again.

1 Lettere, iv. 105, 107.