I live in a world gone mad. Morning last, we four friends did play at jests and speak carelessly and with laughter. Now, all words catch in the throat for fear of heaping further calamity upon our shattered circle. I must set the sad events of the day down with quill and ink, that I may study them at a further hour, and perhaps find within some sense of reason!
Let me now set forth to capture the essence of my companions as they are today, for none but God knows whether I shall know them tomorrow.
I will begin with Raphael, for of all of us, he is of the highest station within the court of the illustrious Francesco Bellini, and also the least likely to see the light of day, come the morning. I love Raphael di Carrazzio with all of my heart, but he is as great a fool as was ever born of woman, and, tonight, will almost certainly die for it. May the Savior prevent it.
Although he is the first born son of one of Don Bellini's most prominent vassals, he has always given his own favour to those whose companionship he enjoys, rather than those who could enhance his reputation and influence. I have often envied him that luxury; the Cosa family has become so impoverished that I am forced to seek social advantage in my friendships or be faced with the loss of my status as gentleman! Raphael has always been considerate to my situation, although, of course, I am compelled to hide my difficulties as well as can be arranged. Simply by being in his vicinity, I am often able to make acquaintances who may eventually become useful to me.
For my part, I help him cope as best he can with what I will call "his illness". It is indeed a very fatal malady that preys upon his mind: the overindulgent fancy of women. For although I, myself, have no choice but to seek wedlock with a woman of high station, Raphael seems bound by no such restriction. In fact, he finds himself constantly "falling in love" with women of stations high and low, the ailment being contracted by nothing more than a casual glance! Fortunately for him, his heart heals rather quickly, only in time to become infected with some new doxy.
Enough, then, of Raphael. I will now apply my pen to Mercutio, for his is the deadly blade which will surely drink the life from our poor Raphael, should midnight be cruel enough to arrive.
Mercutio Amarillo is the fourth son of a Florentine noble of some influence. His allowance is such that he wants for little, but there seems no chance that he will stand to inherit much. Why he plies the courts of Venice, one can not be sure. It is not a subject he chooses to speak of to us, as his prime concerns are merely with swordplay and knavery, both of which arts he performs both regularly and with brilliance.
I don't mean to imply that Mercutio is difficult to enjoy in conversation. Actually, he has a sharp, although ofttimes profane and vulgar, wit, with which he amuses us quite savagely. There is no victim too high to escape the barb of his tongue, although the mightiest are only referred to in this manner in private jests. His humour, even when blasphemous, is no fault in my mind; anyone can see that he means none of it.
What I fear most in Mercutio are his moments of seriousness. Many a time I have seen him pause over a mug of ale, fixing his steely grey eyes on some point in the darkness. I often wondered what face he imagined, and why the look he served to it terrified me so. I have now seen him cast that dark stare at Raphael, and I know its meaning. Death.
Another close friend of mine, who is also to play a role in the drama, comes from a village nearby to Venice. His name is Caesare Verenza, and he is of a much more temperate nature than my other two friends. It is with him that I feel the deepest spirit of kinship, and yet, how little I truly know of him!
That he seeks, like myself, to increase his status in court, seems reason enough for our companionship. His intellect, too, is like sweet wine after the lunatic banter of Mercutio and Raphael. Often we debate with one another over which noble is more worthy of praise, how best to procure a strategic seat at the next feast, and other profitable exercises. It is obvious, though, that he has other concerns that he does not feel at ease to share with me; I often feel that, indeed, he keeps secrets that he considers more valuable than my friendship, and that will be used for his own advantage alone.
On, then, with the events of the day. It all started innocuously enough; Mercutio, Caesare, and I were loitering about the pillars of the Bellini Casa, when Raphael came bounding up to us with a quill and paper in his hands. "You must help me," he cried piteously, "for I must compose a sonnet for my lady love by this evening or lose her love forever!" This was very amusing, so we all decided to help him out.
To call the lamentable scrap that we assembled "a sonnet", would show little respect for Raphael's "lady love". But that was fine, for we knew her to be none other than a lowborn strumpet by the name of Christina Funicello. The lines we threw together make no sense and are only a sonnet in that the rhyme scheme follows a pattern once used by Petrarch, who will surely rise up from Hell and smite us all. Caesare and I did most of the work, and the only common strain to be found throughout is our mockery of Raphael's shallow love and its sallow object. The line about the sword can, and should, be properly attributed to Mercutio, and contains a metaphor no one can miss, except, perhaps, Raphael. Raphael's only contribution was to think it high art. It's quite likely that Christina would have held the same opinion, were she ever to have received it. Here then are the glorious syllables:
It was very difficult to refrain from laughing as we scribed the last line, so we made no such effort.
With our friend's worries placated for the moment, we went to our favourite tavern, "The Priggish Maid", to imbibe the golden and inexpensive beverage for which it is famous. Other than Mercutio's amusing ridicule of an ugly barmaid, there is nothing to relate about the experience.
Towards evening we returned to the court for dinner and in search of favours to perform for important people. All other obligations were banished, however, when Caesare managed to secure a duty from Don Bellini himself! We were to deliver a sealed message from him to his longtime friend, Hortenzio di Castiglione.
Now, it is worthy to note that Castiglione and Bellini, although both powerful nobles, seem to have little in common, other than, perhaps, time shared together as youths. Whereas Bellini strives to make his palace a monument to all that is beautiful and vibrant in Venice, Castiglione's manse is merely opulent, with no real aesthetic regard. Bellini is renowned for his piety and the love he shows to his wife; Castiglione is regarded by many to be a monstrous sinner, and treats his wife with open disdain. I can not verify any of the rumours I have heard about his vices, only that they are terrible to hear, and that those who speak too loudly of them are said to fall victim to "unfortunate accidents".
In any case, I am willing, to a certain extent, to disregard a man's shortcomings in favour of the practical benefits of knowing him. And with Castiglione, the benefits nearly match the rumoured shortcomings. He is extremely wealthy, and has his hand on the pulse of the oligarchy. I have even heard it said that he has enough control of the electors to obtain the leadership of Venice, either as doge or as dictator! Surely any effort to ingratiate oneself with this man would not be wasted.
My first visit to the Casa di Castiglione was an incredible disappointment. Not only did the structure itself lack the grace of Bellini's, but the court life bordered on the malevolent! Before I go on about it, however, I must relate the journey to its door, as this path held upon it the stumbling block that has cast down poor Raphael.
After the feast, my friends hastened back to their dwellings to don their best apparel. To my shame, I was already wearing mine! We met back at Casa Bellini. Caesare took an inordinate amount of time to prepare, arriving late with something of a black mood about him. I wonder what thoughts trouble that noble brow of his. In any case, we said our greetings and were off to Casa di Castiglione.
It was on the wide staircase leading to Castiglione's door that disaster struck us: a beautiful woman, cowled in black and flanked by two bodyguards, was hurrying from the open gate. Even I could not fail to notice her face, pale in the moonlight, and the flowing locks of auburn, braided with green ribbon, that surrounded it below the hood. Raphael was awestruck.
Before any of us could prevent him, Raphael had made his way to the lady's side, and thrust our poor sonnet into her hand. She gave him a confused look and kept on down the stairs and into the night. Raphael turned back to a disapproving entourage.
Although we had all seen this woman a thousand times, it is clear that Raphael had no idea who she was. This is not truly surprising; Raphael does not think of people as names and positions, but only as faces and voices. However, that he should make such a mistake showed the frightening depth of his folly: the woman to whom he presented that rancid leaf was none other than Donna Elizabetha Mercato.
There are three things about Donna Elizabetha of which every unmarried man in Venice is aware: one, that she is the richest heiress in the city; two, that she is also the most beautiful; and three, that she is under the protection of Francesco Bellini, who will see her marry none but the finest gentleman who walks the earth. All of which should have dissuaded our friend from making such a fool of himself, but, somehow, he remained oblivious.
Caesare and I could only keep a terrified silence when confronted with the heinous profanity our friend had just dedicated to the Angel of Venice. But how could we have prepared our ears for the poisonous words that leaped like a serpent from Mercutio's lips?
"Why waste your fine verse on that harlot?"
What were we to think? If it were a jest, then surely this were not the time for it, nor this a woman deserving of such slander. But this were no jest. His eyes told as much. He spouted off many other such indignities and insults to the woman and any who loved her before Raphael drew his sword.
Now, Raphael is an inconstant lover, at best, but all of us know better than to make merry about the object of his desire. He has challenged us all to duels before, and we have been forced to apologize directly to his mistresses, no matter if they be base barmaids, in order to avoid a pointless confrontation. But Mercutio's words were no jest, and he looked in no hurry to back down.
We two remaining sane men must have echoed one another's thoughts: Surely Raphael was a fool to imagine that the love of one such as Donna Elizabetha was to be won in such a manner, but why attack the honour of the lady? Mercutio had never mentioned such a dislike before, and had never made any such slanderous remark in all our time at court. And yet here he was, as much as calling her the devil's own daughter!
Caesare and myself tried our best to show them both the foolishness of their actions and demanded to know what the lady had done to merit such abuse from Mercutio, but no solution seemed imminent. Eventually, Caesare had to call upon their honour as representatives of Don Bellini to avoid a duel on the Don Castiglione's stairs! We had business to attend to; this foolishness would have to wait.
We went inside to find ourselves in the most loathsome court ever viewed by living man. The court was so dull that hardly anyone seemed to speak or move; the whole assembly seemed only to quiver, like a carcass whose only life is that of the worms that move within it. Hortenzio di Castiglione perched uncomfortably on a throne, of sorts, and surveyed his audience with undisguised malice; when Caesare presented Don Bellini's message to him, no response was given, other than that we should wait here until he read the letter and wrote his reply.
One can understand the man's poor disposition if one takes into account the dull people who pay him court, but it must also be remembered that it is the host who creates the court, and not the other way around. Looking further into the mystery, one finds that the man's son and heir is nothing less than an imbecile. He spent the entire evening playing at draughts with one of his servants, and not well! The only time he got up, he nearly walked into Caesare, staring vacantly into his eyes and not uttering a word. Mere moments later, the boy overturned his table in a fit of rage, yelled at his father that he "could not take any more", then stormed out of the hall. We decided that we could not take any more, either, so Caesare quickly picked up Don Castiglione's letter and we made our way to the door.
Outside the casa, the two duelists picked up where they had left off. The whole court experience had not distracted them from their madness, and had only managed to keep them to an ugly silence. Now even this had evaporated in the heat of their smoldering anger. Once again, Caesare and I tried to help them see reason; once again, they only became more inflamed. Raphael must be satisfied! Mercutio will meet him at midnight behind the Priggish Maid! That is when I saw it. The look of death. Mercutio meant to kill Raphael. Oh! may Heaven prevent it!