Blogs

Yesterday I went to the market place to see if I could get supplies for a voyage as far as Napoli, Prospero told Rico and I.

The three of us sat on Prosperos bed in our dormitory, and Prospero spoke softly so nobody could overhear. At a certain point I heard someone laughing, and when I looked up I saw an old woman was pointing at me. It was so dark and misty by the port that I could barely see her face, but motioned me to come to her table.

The old woman seemed to be selling herbs. I stepped up to her table and she looked me up and down. Ragazzo mio, I will tell you your fortune, but I can tell that you have not the money to pay for it, so I will tell you for free, she said to me in a laughing voice.

Before I could react, she told me to choose three herbs. I pointed to three without thinking too much. The woman took those herbs and placed them in the center, then she arranged the other herbs and spices around them. She looked in my eyes and said in a sing-song voice: You will soon receive a grand sum of money, but you will spend it all to leave this island. You will seek your fortune will find misfortune until you return home. There you will be safe and flourish. Act wisely, and Fortune will come hunting for you.

The old woman grinned: Ah, ragazzo mio, you are happy with this news?.

I blushed, and pulled out the few coins I had and put them on her table, but she put them back in my hand. Your friends will be safe if they travel with you, she whispered, but beware! Evil ones there are that capture foolish youths for their own ends. You would be in great danger if Fortune were not looking for you too. She waved me off and I could hear her laughing again as I left the market place to come back to the villa. So here I am!

The message seemed very strange to me. I could see that Rico was confused too. Prospero just smiled and said: Do you see? The old woman said Fortune would hunt for us! Fortune sent Count Algarotti to give money to Rico. If we stick together, good fortune will find us. Good signs! I say that we leave Melioria tomorrow morning.

Wasps were all around, a thousand stick-like legs scratching my face and neck, paper-thin wings transparent before bogging down with the darkness.

I held my breath as I plunged face-first, face-down into frigid water. People laughed, and I thought I saw them moving or were they marionettes? Part of the show? The woman stood near as I tried hard to grab an apple with my teeth; oh they had wanted to tie my hands, restrict me, confine me. But we will use the soft silk cords, she said. Try them, you will see. Will not be so bad. I said that cords are cords be they silk or rope, real or figurative, and none shall bind my hands. So I clasped them behind my back of my own power, and then things went dark as the water rushed in, rushed past. The last things I saw were the scintillating lights of a million stars dancing on the horizon, diamonds spilling like souls upon black velvet. And it all looked beautiful at first, until I dipped below the surface.

The horizon was actually the rim of the large clay vat brought in from the yard and the lights came not from stars or diamonds, but from the wet, glistening thoraxes of hundreds of black and white wasps, floating dead in the water. Each was still, its jointed legs folded back to its body as if in prayer and the candlelight from the room bounced off the hard backs of each one as they brushed my face, filled my mouth, and danced the minuet with my eyelashes.

It was New Years and I was supposed to be bobbing for apples at a party, a festive social function based on local customs and fertility rites but instead of apples, I was bobbing for wasps.

And as I was under the water, searching, searching for the way out, I felt wasp wings tickling my cheeks in a creepy-crawly sort of way, and I felt mandibles scraping my forehead as I tried to stay calm, struggling to recall what my tutor had taught me about wasps. We had watched them beneath the cherry trees that one lazy summer day, as they flitted and crawled, sucking fruit. Wasps are parasites when they are young. They must be cared for and coddled. Many wasps are predatory, hunting other insects. Killing one wasp at a time is not as effective as killing the entire hive. Had someone tried to drown this hive? Is that why it was here in the vat on New Years Eve?

There were no apples under the water, only more and more wasps. I felt a big one lodge in my right nostril as another jammed in my ear. I rose screaming to the surface, frantically brushing and scraping the wasps from my skin, ready to dig them from my wig, only to find none. I panted, panicked and pale.

I was dry and clean albeit a bit sweaty and nervous.

Across from me sat the gypsy lady.

She smiled and fanned the sweet-smelling incense.

She gestured behind me to the street show and carnivals.

Down the center marched a band of harlequins, people dressed as giant wasps wearing pied tights and costumes.

Black, she said as she rolled the dice and fanned the cards.

-.-

Everything began to move quickly the next morning. At first light Conte Bon came from the port to the gates of the Villa. He was on horseback and I ran to meet him and shouted: What news, Signor Conte?

It is confirmed! The Prince of Melioria changed course and did not arrive where he was expected, he told me, and then added: I must consult the council, but keep faith, my lad. Perhaps the good Lord changed the Princes course for a reason. We must wait it out and see. At that, the count spurred his horse and raced up the hill to Villa Melioria.

Il conte Bon races his horse up to the Villa

Prospero called us to meet in the boys dormitory at mid-morning. I quickly recounted what the Baroness had told me and the comments of the Count. Prospero grunted. Rico, who was normally quiet, became very animated.

Yesterday afternoon when I was walking through the atrium of the villa, Rico told us, I felt a freezing wind blow through the house.

Rico feels a freezing wind blow through the Villa

The birds in the aviary starting chirping and chattering so loudly that I had to go over and see what was happening. When I got close to the cage, the birds kept chattering and, please dont laugh, I felt as if someone was standing next to me. I looked around. There were only the birds, but it seemed like I could feel the Prince standing there.

Oh! I felt a chill go up my spine when my friend said this, but Rico quickly continued:

Feeling as if the Prince was there, I felt courageous, like we always felt when he gave us advice. At that moment I notice a strange pacing in the garden. I went outside and met the man and introduced myself, the way the Prince always told us we should do.

What did you discover? Prospero asked.

The man told me he was a count, Rico told us. He calls himself Francesco Algarotti. He says he is a count from Venezia, but he does not seem very Venetian to me, Rico stated.

Rico meets in Count Francesco Algarottithe garden

Why do you say this? Prospero countered.

Because he kept speaking to me in French. When I told him that I am from Venezia, he said that he was too, but when I spoke to him in Venetian, he seemed confused. I had to speak in Italian for him to understand.

Prospero shook his head: Whats he playing at, I wonder?

Rico pulled something out of his pocket. I do not know, but he gave me this coin purse. He said that he will arrange to have some fisherman take us to Napoli early tomorrow morning. All we have to do is meet him at the port.

Rico placed the coin purse in front of Prospero, who poured the clanking contents on the bed. Prospero patted them all flat and then began to inspect the gleaming pile of gold and silver.

This is strange, he said in a hushed tone. Prospero carefully turned over one coin after another. Did you look at these coins, Rico?

At Prosperos nod, Rico and I began to inspect the coins. This is not normal, Rico whispered. This gold and silver all comes from different countries!

It was true. There were scudi from Rome, ducati and zecchini from Venice and fiorini from Florence, talleri from Austria and many other coins that I did not recognize.

Rico pushed the pile back toward Prospero, who put the money back into the purse. I told you that the count was very mysterious. Rico said. Yet, I felt as if the Prince was with me and I was not afraid.

Rico told us that the Prince gave him courage

Rico looked each of us in the eye, waiting for a response. Prospero picked up the coin purse and grinned. Very good, Rico. Youve got us a sponsor so we can get to the mainland and go home. He bounced the purse in his hand, and then tossed it back to Rico with a wink: Now let me tell you what I discovered yesterday.

Prospero winked and told us that he had news for us

I am in a lazy mood today, so I wont write this post myself. I was amused reading the lampoon pamphlet Monsieur le baron dHolbach is just about to publish, and I will only introduce it to you. Monsieur dHolbach, as you may know, is a german scientist and philosopher (he wrote books on chemistry, physics, metallurgy, geology, mining, etcas well as on religion, law and morals (it seems he has an opinion just about everything on earth).

In 1749 he came to France, took French nationality, and befriended the French Scientists and Philosophers, providing by himself 376 entries to the Encyclopedia of Diderot and DAlembert. He welcomes, as guests in his famed Salon and at his dining table, many of the greatest characters of our time, from France and abroad, as for instance Benjamin Franklin.

This man is a materialist and atheist thinker, and reading his books is a pain in my neck, both for style and content. I only make an exception for this libel I am introducing you to. It is the perfect lampoon: harsh, insincere, cruelly unfair, BUT true in its own partial way, and with a devastating humor, very much in the Swift vein. It also has the merit of revealingwhat the people think of the Courts outside of them ( though they would not express it with the same talent).

Come on, Courtiers, lets show him we can laugh at ourselves better than he does!

((OOC P.S: of course, finding any resemblance with SL Courtiers would not only be purely coincidental, but also the mischievous fruit of a wicked mind. This is a real writing about real historical Courtiers, and not about role-players, do I need to say?))

ESSAY ON THE ART OF CRAWLING, for the use of Courtiers, by Baron DHOLBACH

The courtier is, without contradiction, the most curious product of the human race. Hes an amphibian animal in which all contrasts are commonly assembled. A Danish philosopher compares the courtier to the statue composed of different materials that Nebuchadnezzar saw in a dream. He says: The head of a courtier is of glass, his hair of gold, his hands of resin, his body of plaster, his heart is half steel half mud, his feet are of straw, and his blood of water and quicksilver.

It must be admitted that so strange an animal is difficult to define. Not only can he not be known by others, he can barely know himself. Nevertheless, it appears that, all things considered, he can be categorized in the class of men, with this difference: ordinary men have only one soul, while the courtier seems to have several. In fact, a courtier is sometimes insolent and sometimes groveling; sometimes sordidly avaricious and sometimes insatiably avid; sometimes extremely prodigal, sometimes audacious; sometimes of a shameful cowardice, sometimes of the most impertinent arrogance and sometimes of the most careful politeness. In a word, he is a Proteus, a Janus or rather a god from India, who is represented with seven faces.

Whatever the case, it is for these rare beings that nations seem to exist. Providence has destined them for their least pleasures: the sovereign himself is only their business agent. When he does his duty he has no other task than that of fulfilling their needs and their fantasies, only too happy to work for these necessary men who the state cannot do without. It is in their interest that a monarch imposes taxes, makes war or peace, imagines a thousand ingenious inventions to torment and gouge the people. In exchange for this, the grateful courtiers pay the monarch with gratitude, assiduity, flattery, and meanness; and the talent of trading thanks for these important merchandise is that which is perhaps most useful to the court.

Philosophers, who are commonly ill-humored, in truth look upon the mtier of courtier as low, as infamous, as that of a poisoner. The ungrateful people dont feel the entire extent of the gratitude they owe to these generous ones who, in order to maintain their sovereign in a good mood, devote themselves to boredom, sacrifice themselves to his caprices, continually sacrifice to him their honor, their probity, their amour propre , their shame and their remorse. Dont those imbeciles know the cost of these sacrifices? Dont they think what it must cost to be a good courtier? Whatever force of spirit one might have, however armored the conscience by the habit of holding virtue in contempt and crushing probity under foot, ordinary men always find it difficult to stifle in their hearts the cry of reason. There is only the courtier who manages to reduce that importunate voice to silence. He alone is capable of so noble an effort.

If we examine things from this point of view, we can see that of all the arts, that of crawling is the most difficult. This sublime art is perhaps the most marvelous conquest of the human spirit. Nature placed in the hearts of all men an amour propre , a pride that is, of all dispositions, the most difficult to vanquish. The soul revolts against everything that tends to depress it; it vigorously reacts whenever its wounded in that sensitive spot. And if at a young age we havent developed the habit of fighting, repressing or crushing this powerful spring, it becomes impossible to master it. This is what the courtier works at during his childhood, a study much more useful that all those that are so emphatically vaunted, and, in those who have acquired the faculty of subjugating nature, announces a strength with which few being find themselves gifted. It is through these heroic efforts, these combats, these victories that a skillful courtier distinguishes himself and reaches the point of insensitivity that leads him to credit, honors, and those grandeurs that are the object of the envy of his peers and that of public admiration.

Let them exalt after this the sacrifices religion imposes on those who want to gain heaven. Let them talk of the strength of soul of those haughty philosophers who claim to hold in contempt all that men esteem. Believers and sages could not defeat amour propre ; pride seems to be compatible with devotion and philosophy. It is only reserved to the courtier to triumph over himself and to carry off a complete victory over the sentiments of his heart. A perfect courtier is without contradiction the most amazing of all men. Dont talk to us about the abnegation of the pious; true abnegation is that of a courtier for his master: see how he obliterates himself in his presence. He becomes a pure machine, or rather he is nothing: he awaits his being from him; he seeks to find in his traits those he should have himself. He is like wax ready to receive all the impressions made on it.

There are a few mortals who have a narrow spirit, a lack of suppleness in the spine, a lack of flexibility in the neck: this unfortunate organization prevents them from perfecting themselves in the art of crawling and renders them incapable of advancing at court. Serpents and reptiles reach the heights of mountains and rocks, while the most fiery of steeds can never climb there. The court is not made for these haughty, inflexible personages who dont know how to give themselves over to the caprices, to surrender to the fantasies or even, when need be, to approve or favor those crimes grandeur deems necessary for the well being of the state.

A good courtier should never have an opinion; he should only have that of his master or minister, and his sagacity should always make sure he knows this, which presupposes a consummate experience and profound knowledge of the human heart. A good courtier should never be in the right: it isnt permitted him to have more wit than his master or the distributor of his graces. He must know that the sovereign and the men in place can never be wrong.

The properly raised courtier must have a stomach strong enough to digest all the affronts he receives from his master. From his youngest age he must learn to command his physiognomy for fear that it betray the movements, the secrets of his heart, or that it reveal an involuntary spite that an insult might cause. In order to live at court one must have complete control over the muscles of ones face in order to experience disgust without flinching. A pouter, a man of moods or susceptibility cannot succeed.

In fact, all those who hold power commonly dont accept that we feel the stings that they have the goodness to inflict or that we take it into our heads to complain. Before his master the courtier must imitate the young Spartan who was whipped for having stolen a fox. Though during the operation the animal, hidden in his coat, gnawed away at his belly, the pain didnt draw from him the least cry. What art, what self-control arent supposed by that profound dissimulation that forms the main character of the true courtier. Under the cover of friendship he knows how to lull his enemies, show an open, affectionate face to those he most detests, embrace with tenderness the enemy hed like to suffocate. Finally, the most impudent lies mustnt produce any alteration in his face.

The great art of the courtier, the essential object of his study, is to make himself aware of the passions and vices of his master in order to be able to seize him at his weak point. He is then assured of having the key to his heart. Does he love women? He must procure them. Is he pious? He must become so or become hypocritically so. Is he suspicious? He must implant suspicions about all those who surround him. Is he lazy? He must never speak to him of affairs. In a word, he must serve him in keeping with his style, and especially must continually flatter him. If hes a fool one risks nothing in flattering him, even if he is far from deserving it. But if by chance he has intelligence or good sense which one must rarely fear then a bit of care must be taken.

The courtier must learn to be affable, affectionate, and polite towards all those who can help or harm him. He can only be haughty towards those he has no need of. He must know by heart the price of all those he meets; he must deeply bow to the femme de chambre of a lady in favor, familiarly chat with the Suisse or the butler of a minister, caress the dog of the premier commis. Finally, it is not allowed to him to be distracted for a single minute; the life of the courtier is a continual study.

Like Harlequin, the true courtier must be everyones friend while not having the weakness of attaching himself to anyone. Obliged to triumph over friendship and sincerity, it is only to the man in place that his attachment is owed, and that attachment must cease as soon as power does. It is indispensable to immediately detest whoever has displeased the master or the favorite of the moment.

Judge from all this if the life of a perfect courtier is anything but a long train of painful labors. Is it possible for nations to correctly pay a body of men so devoted to the service of a prince? The entire treasury barely suffices to pay heroes who sacrifice themselves completely to public happiness. Is it not just that men who damn themselves for the good of their fellow citizens with such good grace be at least well paid in this world?

What respect, what veneration should we not have for these privileged beings whose rank, whose birth naturally render so proud when we see the generous sacrifice they ceaselessly make of their pride, their hauteur, their amour propre . Do they not every day push this sublime abandonment of themselves to the point of filling the same functions for the prince that the least of valets fills with his own master? There is nothing low in all they do for him. What am I saying? They take glory from the lowest jobs attached to his sacred person. Night and day they aspire to the joy of being useful to him. They keep him in sight, make ministers indulgent of his pleasures, take upon themselves his foolishness or hasten to applaud it. In a word, a good courtier is so absorbed in the idea of his duty that he often takes pride in doing things an honest lackey would never do. The spirit of the gospels is humility. The Son of Man told us that he who exalts himself shall be humiliated. The opposite is no less certain, and people of the court follow the precept to the letter. Do not then be more surprised if providence rewards them without measure for their flexibility, and if their abjection procures for them the honors, wealth, and respect of well-governed nations.

Source: Correspondance littraire, philosophique et critique addresse a un souverain dAllemagne pendant une partie des annes 1775-1776, et pendant les annes 1782 a 1790 inclusivement . Tome V. Paris, F. Buuisson, libraire, 1813;
Translated: for marxists.org by Mitchell Abidor 2006;
CopyLeft: Creative Commons (Attribute & ShareAlike) marxists.org 2006.

....... I hear rumours of an Austrian affair...But....I think LAffaire avec La Dauphine is just, as the English would say, a Red Herring?

I, instead, observed Wrath mingling with many Ladies as is his habit.

Until he came upon a mysterious Lady clad in scarlet, surely a Sin!!!

And I observed Wrath leading the Lady to a more discreet area, behind the temple, and somewhat away from the other dancers. There Wrath unmasked the Lady who turned out to be non other then Constance-Elisabeth de Bonzac, the Dowager Vicontesse de Saint-Emillion, recently returned from the country where she had been exiled for.......well thats another story....

I observed them both, as they shared a quiet moonlit moment, and they looked pretty chummy, I can tell you!!!

....It was all very cosy, until the Duchesse de Montbazon, Victorie Armande de Rohan came upon their tryst. Well...we all know that Wrath and the Duchesse have been, what shall we say, close in the past?

Ohhhh...the looks that passed between the three of them!!!!

After which the Vicontesse quickly replaced her Mask as Wrath took leave of her and hurried away

Looking, in my opinion, furtive and nervous as he went.

Que sont mes amis devenus

Que j'avais de si prs tenus

Et tant aims

Ils ont t trop clairsems

Je crois le vent les aots

L'Amour est morte

C'taient amis que vent emporte

Et il ventait devant ma porte

Les emporta.

Wherehave all my dear friends gone

That I held in close acquaintance

and loved so much

I did not keep them tight enough

I think some ill wind blew them off

Love went with them

They were friends the winds could blow

And the winds blew by my door,

Took them away.

( Rutebeuf, french poet, circa 1250 )

I dedicate this poem, and my sadness that goes with it, to MariaLouisa,Summer,Gallyon and Fletch: right or wrong, forbetter or worse, present or away,they are and will remain my dearfriends. They can leave the RC Ning, but they can't leave my memories. I hope they know it, even if they don't read this.

And many thanks to all my other past, present and future friends here,you allmake my life a better one.

Lord Drake Geraln, Pasha of Korat, in the Ottoman Emprie and Lord Anvar Sheikh of the Bedawi tribes visit Duch de Coeur. Accompanied by Lady Salimah the Kadin Lady Zoey, and members of the Pasha's Harem the two lords vacation in the beautiful French country side on their tour across Europe.

.......Meanwhile in north of the Peninsula, not far from the lake of Iseo......

Donna Elena The housemaid bops a quick curtseyYour father wishes to speak to you in his Study.

Elena puts down the book she had been reading, Poems on Particular Occasions (by Elisabeth Carter). Quickly brushing the Amaretti crumbs of her dress she makes her way the Contes Study. She gently knocks on the door and enters.

Her Father, the Conte Filippe looks up from the letter he has been reading.

Siediti, Cara, I have some very sad news to impart

Elena notices the letter he is holding, and her fathers sad expression.

What is it, Papa? What has happened?

I have just received a letter from the Principato di Melioria. It concerns the Principe. You remember that the Principe had travelled to the new world, with the intention of introducing the Grape Vine to that country. Apparently the climate there is very favourable.

Yes Papa?

It would seem that their settlement was attacked by the native population and burnt to the ground. Many corpses were found, but burnt beyond recognition. They cannot be sure, but it is believed that the Principe may have been amongst the dead.

Elena gets up and goes to the window, gazing out on the roses and the lawn.

This is terrible!

I thought you should know, Elena.

Yes, off course, thank you for telling me. I shall write to his family immediately. I am so sorry papa, he was a most charming and kind man, and I know he was a very old friend of yours.

Yes he was, a very dear old friend

Is there anything I can do for you Papa?

No Cara, but thank you, just leave me to my thoughts and memories for a while, then send Zuanne to me, I shall have letters for him to take to Melioria.

Elena returns to the Salotto, her thoughts in turmoil. The Principe! Dead! It cannot be, and in a land so far away. She remembers his many kindnesses to herself and the Orphans she brought to Melioria when they sought refuge there after the Floods of Venezia...The Orphans!!!? What will happen to them, now that they are no longer under direct protection of the Principe?

Elena tries to calm herself and thinks of each one of them, Fiorino, Prospero, Rico, Luigi, Santi, Stella, Rosaria...some found employment of various sorts, some like Rosaria disappeared, Santi went to Sea. Many of the boys however worked and lived at the Villa. What will happen to them now?

Elena goes quickly to her Bureaux, kneels down, and feels her way along one of the panels, until she finds the tiny button. She presses it and a secret compartment jumps open. She removes a purse of coins and gently closes the compartment.

If her Father is sending Zuanne with letters of condolences to the Principes family, then she will give Zuanne a mission of her own. To find Fiorino and the other boys, and offer them safe passage through the country and back to the Veneto, should they wish it?

Elena sits down and begins to write.....

On July 9th 2011, within the frame of the Venise Vivaldi Versailles festival, a carnival night will take place in the Chateau de Versailles ( the RL one): Period costumes and masks are an obligation. The Castle Orangerie and gardens will be opened all night for the 250privilegedones who attend it:

-at 10 pm, buffet with drinks ( champagne?) and strolling along the gardens, fountains, waterworksand bosquets...

-at 11 pm, fantabulous fireworks above the Chateau

-at Midnight, beginning of the Carnival Ball....

Of course, many of you have already done this in SL, but...this might be DIFFERENT!!!

For those who would love to attend, see the link: http://www.lecarnavaldeversailles.fr/

If you come here, will you recognize me behind my mask? YES, I might be there...( the very handsome baron with a silver and blue justaucorps? or the old hunchback Duc with a watering mouth? or the mysterious venetian gambler who steals all the purses? ) who knows...

As soon as our meeting ended, each of us rushed out to meet our contacts and got whatever information we could. I did not see my friends all day, for we each went in a different direction. The sky remained overcast and dark all day long.

My mission was to contact someone for passage from Melioria to the closest port on the mainland so that we could return to Venezia. Instead of going through the village, I ran along the shoreline, and was surprised to find the German Baroness von Khr. I bowed and greeted her, hoping that she would wave me off as she has done many times. Instead, the baroness called me over to herself.

Fiorino chances on Baronessa Diogeneia Franziska Freifrau von Khr at the shore

When I drew close to the baroness I noticed that she had a very intense look about her. She is a very small woman, smaller than me, but the prince often told me that she is very exact. She used to help her husband with military strategies, and now that she is a widow, she has come to Italy. She hoped to forget the wars that took her husband, but she is always alert. Her question told me she was noticing what others perhaps did not. She asked me pointedly: Have you noticed any suspicious ships in the harbor?

No, Signora Baronessa. The harbor is very deserted right now, I told her.

The baroness looked me up and down and said: Be very, very careful, Fiorino. I have reason to believe that there are pirates landing in the cove on the north of the island: pirates of the Barbary Coast.

Pirates? Moors? I gasped.

The baroness only nodded and said in a very low tone. Be on your guard. Barbary pirates are on the lookout for boys your age to kidnap and make slaves on their ships. It is not safe to wander on the shore in these dark days.

The baroness gives a strong warning

With that, Baroness von Khr peered into the fog again. Be on your guard. Tell the others not to try anything foolish, she whispered. She said no more.