4. An Eye Of Pity
Antonio recovered his wits first, and silently thanked his lucky stars that he had chosen to form his partnership with Capulet rather than Rinuccini. Capulet did not look half as pleased, and Antonio realized that, in a small city such as Verona, merchants tended to be much more interdependent than the large traders of Venice. He hoped that Capulet's business had not been so deeply intertwined with his rival's that he would have to advance funding to his new partner immediately.
Capulet fussed with his papers a little bit more, then stopped. "I really must go to the Prince," he said. "I shall be of no use today until I know what has happened." Then, as if the thought had just struck him, "Would it please you to accompany me? If not, I shall see to it that you do not lack entertainment . . ."
"I would accompany you gladly," Antonio said. Besides giving him a chance to come to know Capulet better, the outing would allow Antonio to gain a sense of the other business men of Verona, and possibly to catch a glimpse of the Prince as well.
The walk to the palace was not long, but a small crowd had already gathered. The palace guards used their pikes to herd the petitioners into a rough semblance of a queue, and Antonio and Capulet were fortunate enough to be relatively close to the head. Excited murmurs filled the air around them. Some rumors of a crime floated through the crowd, but no one seemed to know quite what it was. Antonio caught sight of Signior Neri standing not too far away, and asked him what he had heard.
"There is nothing definite," Neri replied. "I believe that the talk of crime is no more than a response to the gravity of the banishment. I have heard endless speculation about the nature of the crime, but no man has the same tale as his neighbor."
Antonio thanked him, and resigned himself to a long wait. Capulet surveyed the crowd and pursed his lips.
"Banishment is a harsh sentence in Verona, exceeded by death alone," he said. "I know not what Rinuccini could have done to merit it. He is not a pleasant man, but he is hardly a murderer."
If this had been Venice, Antonio might have doubted that statement, but he could not imagine that the men of provincial Verona were so prone to the vices of a city such as Venice. So he held his tongue and waited patiently for the Prince of Verona to respond to the unrest growing outside his gates.
They did not have to wait much longer before a small man with a neatly trimmed red beard emerged and announced that the Prince would see each petitioner briefly. The gossip, which had subsided a little during the wait, flared to life again and provided a source of amusement as the queue shuffled slowly forwards.
At last, the red-bearded man escorted Antonio and Capulet up the steps, down a corridor, and into a reception hall. From there, they moved to an antechamber, and finally to the private study of the Prince.
The Prince was neither old nor young, perhaps forty years of age, but he looked exhausted; stubble bristled on his face, and great purple rings circled his eyes. "I know you, Signior Capulet," he said, "but who is your companion?"
Capulet bowed. "This, my Lord, is Signior Antonio Solera, a merchant of Venice who has lately visited this city to establish a business partnership between us."
"Indeed." The Prince did not look particularly convinced, but neither did he seem angered.
Antonio bowed. "I seek no more than information, Lord," he said. "I would only ensure that this disruption will not affect my business."
The Prince nodded. "Very well. You may stay. As for your questions, Signior Capulet, may I presume that they are the same as those of all the other men I have seen this day?"
Capulet blushed. "It is . . . very likely, my Lord."
"Then I shall be brief. Signior Giacomo Rinuccini has been banished from Verona's walls, and he may not return, or else his life is forfeit. I believe that he has gone to dwell with his relations in Mantua. I shall not forbid him from maintaining his lands or his businesses, nor shall I forbid any other merchant of Verona -- or Venice -- from associating with him. But any and all such associations are to be handled outside of the city. If I discover that any other citizen of Verona has had a hand in aiding his return to the city, that man shall be put to death as well."
Capulet turned a shade paler, but maintained his composure. "I . . . understand. But what has he done to merit such disfavor?"
The Prince's face grew hard. "That is a private matter, between Rinuccini and myself. Rest assured that you are hardly likely to repeat the offense unwittingly." He turned away to signal that the interview was at an end.
Neither Antonio nor Capulet spoke as they left the palace. Antonio considered what he had just heard. It did not seem that the local business web was in pressing danger; the most that would happen would be that business would become inconvenient, and Rinuccini's position in Verona would wither away slowly enough that no great shock would disrupt the other merchants' lives. It was as satisfactory a conclusion as one could possibly wish to such an unpleasant business.
As they ambled up the street, Antonio vaguely remembered little Valentine. He hoped that the boy was well, wherever he was, but could do no more for him, and so put him out of his mind altogether.
Antonio stayed but one night longer in the house of Capulet, though its master entreated him to tarry longer. But Antonio much desired to set his business in order, and suspected that Capulet would need the time to do the same, so he bade his host a gracious farewell and set off after morning Mass.
A downpour forced a halt in Vincenza, and it was two days before the road was dry enough that the coach could continue on to Longere. Antonio was well wearied of travel by the time he arrived at the outskirts of Venice the following evening. His heart warmed as he settled back in the boat for the ride to his home, and he was even glad to see the pigeons. His servants looked at him strangely when he arrived, but said nothing. He assumed that some minor scandal had taken place during his absence, most likely an inconvenient pregnancy. That could be dealt with in the morning. Antonio tumbled into bed and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When morning arrived, he questioned his valet and learned that, in fact, none of the maids had turned up pregnant. The valet told him instead that he would be wanted at the house of Signior Giacosa as soon as he returned. Antonio thanked him, collected the package with the glorious hat for Bassanio, and set off to see his old friend to share his triumph.
Antonio had sent a page ahead to announce his arrival to Stefano, but was surprised to find no one present to greet him at the door. For the first time in many years, he knocked. After a moment, the door opened, revealing a servant in Stefano's livery, with an oddly downcast expression on his face.
"I have come to see Signior Giacosa," Antonio ventured. The servant bowed, and beckoned Antonio to follow him. The house was silent, and Antonio grew uneasy. Finally, the servant ushered him into a small receiving room.
"Signior Giacosa," he said.
But it was not Stefano who rose to embrace Antonio. It was Bassanio, looking haggard and bewildered, but also greatly relieved to see his godfather. Antonio had just enough time to set his gift down on a table before he caught Bassanio in his arms, wondering what had happened during his absence.
When Bassanio's embrace loosened, Antonio took a step back, and finally noticed Bassanio's attire. Usually, Bassanio was the very picture of fashion, wearing his bright clothes a little rakishly, with carefully selected portions left open so as to display his lithe young body. But today, his suit was of deepest black, conservatively cut, and fully laced, right up to the starched frill just below his chin. When he saw it, Antonio's head began to spin.
"Why, Bassanio, wherefore dost thou greet thy godfather in mourning?" he asked, though the answer was already clear.
"Most beloved Antonio," Bassanio began. His voice trailed off, and he took an instant to collect himself before he spoke again.
"It was shortly after you left -- a day, perhaps two -- that my father was struck one morning with prodigious pain in his belly, such that he could not stir from his bed. My lady mother summoned a physician, and the physician gave my father a tonic. The pain subsided the next afternoon, and for a day we thought all would be well. But in the evening of that day, the pain returned and brought with it a fever that carried my father to God in the end."
Antonio's limbs grew cold, and he groped for a chair into which he sank bonelessly. "I did not know," he moaned. "I should not have left him. Oh, my dear Stefano, that thou shouldst be cut down so swiftly in thy prime!"
Bassanio leaned down to embrace him, but his own tears began to flow again, and Antonio clasped him tighter, giving comfort as much as receiving it. Eventually, Bassanio ended up sprawled awkwardly across Antonio's lap, a seat he had occupied many times as a child, but which he had long since outgrown. Antonio wiped his own tears, and then unthinkingly took his handkerchief to Bassanio's face. Bassanio gave a watery giggle at such treatment, and Antonio smiled wryly to realize that he was cosseting a young man of seventeen years, the new Signior Giacosa, as though he were a boy of five. He kissed Bassanio's brow affectionately and gave him a light shove. Bassanio disentangled his long limbs from the chair and rose.
Antonio's gaze followed him and landed on the package that he had brought with him. He gave a snort of despairing laughter.
Bassanio tilted his head to the side. "Why, what is funny?"
"I had thought to greet thy father in joy, and tell him all the tales of my journey," Antonio said, "and then present thee with the gift that I have brought back from Verona. Wilt thou still have it?"
Bassanio blinked, as though he had only just remembered a promise of a gift made but a few days and a lifetime earlier. Almost shyly, Antonio offered him the package. Bassanio hesitated only a moment before taking it. He slipped off the linen wrappings, and the gorgeous, extravagant hat of yellow silk appeared, looking vaguely reminiscent of a Saracen's turban, almost blasphemously bright and frivolous against the gloom of the day and the dark cloth of Bassanio's suit.
Nevertheless, Bassanio smiled to see it. "It is wonderful," he said, caressing the silk between his fingers. "I shall treasure it, and when I have cast aside my mourning cloak, I shall wear this hat to a feast, and none in Venice will have one to equal it."
Antonio smiled gratefully. Bassanio spoke a little more about the changes of the past few days, of Vittoria's current seclusion and plans to enter a convent and spend the rest of her days in prayer for her late husband, and of his own infant plans to increase the Giacosa fortune and become a gentleman of means before seeking a bride. Antonio nodded and made the proper noises, but his mind was not on Bassanio's words.
Bassanio had always been a good-looking boy, though he hardly ever sat still enough for one to see it. But something had changed in the few days since Antonio had seen him last. Sudden sorrow and responsibility had given a new weight to Bassanio's bearing, and the sleek black clothing emphasized his trim, sinewy form and fathomless dark eyes. There was more as well; Antonio had always been conscientious about suppressing the sinful urges of his body, but he had been caught off guard today. When Bassanio had tumbled heedlessly into his lap, the first instinct of Antonio's heart had been to give his cherished godson comfort, but the first instinct of his loins had been to give him something else entirely.
Even now, his groin stirred uncomfortably, and Antonio crossed his legs until an opportune moment arose to rearrange his garments. Bassanio appeared not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary, for which Antonio was grateful. It seemed important to him that Bassanio never know the true extent to which he was loved by his godfather. Antonio would continue to visit him, offer him such advice, money, and friendship as he could, and that would be all. He would be the very model of a doting godfather, and if there was a darker motivation behind his attentions, then that would be between himself and God.
Or perhaps between himself and the Devil; for Antonio had no illusions about his corruptible, sinful nature. He might well be damned, but he could yet preserve Bassanio from that fate. Though the thought tore at his heart, he resolved to see Bassanio safely married, and even dared to hope that he might be permitted to dandle Bassanio's children upon his knee.
The thoughts of Bassanio's marriage reminded him of lively little Juliet Capulet, and the thought of Juliet reminded him of her father. He must write to Signior Capulet and begin the lengthy process of formalizing their trading partnership. And if that task removed him from the adoration of Bassanio's lithe back, strong jaw, and gold-tinged hair, well, that was so much the better. He rose from his chair.
"It grieves me to do so, but I must leave thee now, Bassanio," Antonio said. "Go thou in to thy lady mother and convey my greetings to her, and give her what comfort you may. I must make various letters to send forth to Verona."
"Ay, I understand," Bassanio replied. "Shall I see you again?"
"Of course. Thou art my own dear godson, and thou art my friend as well."
Bassanio embraced Antonio briefly. Antonio was the one to break the embrace before anything untoward should arise between them, and placed a fatherly kiss on Bassanio's brow.
"Call upon me in my home when thou art prepared to face the world," he said, "and advise me when thy mother is preparing to take her vows, for I would not lose the chance to bid her farewell."
"I will remember."
With one last caress of Bassanio's hair, Antonio left him and made his way home. The sky had clouded over, and it seemed a fitting match for the weight in his heart. It seemed to him that he had not paid nearly enough attention to the words of the Evangelists, for their meaning thundered through his mind with striking new clarity. He had gained a new world of commerce on his journey to Verona, but those riches seemed a hollow consolation for the loss of his friend and the damnation of his soul. The Gospels had been right; there was no profit in it at all.
END
Afterword: Thanks to everyone who has read this story. I don't know if I'll return to The Merchant of Venice, but it was definitely fun to peek into this different city and set of characters. Bassanio probably could have used another couple of years under his father's tutelage, because he never does figure out how to handle money, but at least he does get a rich bride in the end. And Antonio might just have been better off in provincial old Verona after all.