“There Is No World Without Verona’s Walls” by Campbell Jefferys

So whined Romeo to Friar Laurence after the Franciscan had commented that, “Here from Verona art thou banished; be patient for the world is broad and wide.” Ah, but what did the Larry know about romance? How could the Friar, or anyone, understand how moved Romeo was, by love for Juliet and for his home? Romeo believed there was no world outside of Verona.

So, hark, I venture forth into the narrow confines of this Northern Italian city, searching for the romance which so filled young Romeo’s heart. I follow his footsteps, thrusting my codpiece towards maidens and wenches alike, my tasselled loafers pounding the aged cobblestones, my tights itching my thighs. Romeo is somewhere within Verona’s walls and I am intent on finding him. Perhaps he could explain why this city, and Juliet, made him wax so lyrically. But, as Mercutio mused, “Where the devil should this Romeo be?” I worry that the young romantic may be hard to locate.

The villagers are out in number on this sunny morn, bidding each other a hearty good morrow and going about their business, hustling to market or to office. They are dressed in their finery, parading around the Piazza Bra and the Piazza Erbe, beautiful people desperate to be admired. And visiting princes, princesses, ladies and lords dismount from their carriages, instruments of photography in hand, and do laps of the 1st century AD Roman arena, their jewels glittering in the morning sun, their straight noses thrust into the air. Romeo is not among them and rightly so, for they have come from outside Verona’s walls, day-trippers wedged into the unromantic confines of a whirlwind tour, recording romance in digital and not in verse.

Thus, do I steer my codpiece towards the narrow alleys of Verona’s old town, away from the bustling hordes crowding around their steel and chrome carriages, and down tight streets immersed in shadow, where orange and red villas crowd close together and frilly nothings flutter from strings cast out from shuttered windows. Sirrah! These constricted walkways close one in but then open into wide courtyards where young maidens dance around wells, their sing-song voices light and lustrous. The sun shines on their heavenly cheeks. Yes, “arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.” Pause, do I, waiting for a romantic verse, one worthy enough to praise these servants of Venus, to cross my lips. But I am too bold. Amid giggles these maidens do scamper away. Perhaps a larger codpiece is required, and tights in a richer and more noble shade of purple.

To the house of Montague I hie myself. Maybe Romeo has some accoutrements befitting a true romantic. But he is not at home; he has even left a message on the door saying that he has lost himself and is “some other where.” Lurking below Juliet’s balcony no doubt. So ho, to the villa of Capulet. But by Jove is it crowded. One cannot even pass the front gate. The visiting princes and princesses are jostling while scrawling on the walls, Deano loves Debbie or some such, while others paw at the statue of Juliet, rubbing her right breast, for luck they claim, until the bronze sheens like gold. Romeo would be appalled, and would take the blade to these hinds, if he were here. I shall return at night, and “with love’s light wings…o’er perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out.”

Some air, some air, leave these wantons behind and escape. Romeo is surely with his friends Mercutio and Benvolio, funsters who prefer wit and jest to matters of the heart. As the swift tongued Mercutio exclaims, “Why, is not this (jesting) better now than groaning for love?” O ay. This kinsman speaketh true. Perhaps these good fellows are trading jibes at the Castel San Pietro, on top of the hill and looking down on the old city; or are they hamming it up at the ruins of the Teatro Romano. My tasselled loafers take me to these locales but Romeo is nowhere to be seen. I even venture inside the Duomo to admire the altar and seek a priest’s counsel, as Romeo had sought out Friar Laurence, but none are forthcoming.

Hither and whither I go, criss-crossing Verona’s alleys and streets. The colours are striking, the villas and houses in brilliant yellows and warm reds. Balconies jut out from buildings and I look up hoping to see a young beauty pouring her heart out to the morning sun: “My only love sprung from my only hate!” The balconies are empty, but these romantic houses inspire me. Yes, Romeo was right. The city is enchanting, the old town a vessel of passion. Thus do lovers journey from lands afar to marry or become engaged within Verona’s walls. Couples rekindle their lovers’ flame, while closet romantics find their true loves sitting in outdoor cafés on the Piazza Erbe or striding along the Via Mazzini.

But it is Romeo I seek and not love. Thankfully, “from love’s weak childish bow” I “live unharmed.” Perhaps young Montague has ventured out into the country, to find peace and solitude on Lake Garda or in the mountains around Lessinia. If he has then I will never find him, for the nature surrounding Verona is both vast and beautiful. But soft. What was it the Friar had advised after Romeo was banished to Mantua? Of course. “Sojourn in Mantua.” I mount my trusty steed. Onward, Trenitalia, carry me forth to the city where the pestilence doth reign.

It is rumoured the plague is present in Mantua. What rot! For this is a beautiful city, surrounded by waters of crystal purity and with a myriad of historic buildings to boot. “Fearful of infection”, this I can’t believe. The streets and squares are almost as beautiful as Verona’s, and my galloping mare Trenitalia brought me here in under an hour. And there is no poison to buy here, only good food and fine local wine. Why, most certainly Romeo and Juliet could have escaped to this city together and had a wonderful life. There are superb theatres here, the striking Castillo di San Giorgio, some magnificent churches, and no feuding families. Juliet would be out from under the calloused thumb of Lady Capulet at last.

But my own Balthasar brings me news, an SMS which says that Juliet “sleeps in Capels’ monument, and her immortal part with angels lives.” Thus doth Trenitalia return me swiftly to Verona; Romeo is rich enough to afford an express steed and is therefore 15 minutes faster. I hasten to Juliet’s tomb on the Via del Pontiere, and the crowd there suggests something is amiss. The princes and princesses have gadgets that click and whirr and flash, but the tomb itself is empty. No Juliet, nor her Romeo. In this tomb did “The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love” come to an end. Did romance die here too? I stagger outside with the princes, but do not board their carriage.

My tasselled loafers stumble on the cobblestones. Night is starting to fall. “The sun for sorrow will not show his head.” The narrow alleys of the old town seem even more romantic at night, the restaurant windows illuminated by candles and old fashioned street lights burn like fluttering torches from days of yore. Soft light, the stars sparkling in the sky above. I squeeze my codpiece through the gate to the House of Capulet just before the gate closes behind me. The walkway is dark and I am happy I cannot see the graffitied walls. There’s the famed balcony, jutting out from a wall of solid brick. Smirk do I, for Romeo would have to have been an expert free-climber to mount that wall for a kiss on the balcony.

I kneel at the statue of Juliet, her face so pensive and pure, so young. Flesh for the taking. An ugly thought wheedles its way into my mind; perhaps Romeo was not in love at all, and only hungry for honeymoon desserts. As the Friar commented after Romeo’s love had switched so quickly from Rosaline to Juliet: “So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies, not truly in their hearts but in their eyes.” O cynical Friar, tucked away in your cell, can you really know what moves men’s hearts? This sad statue of Juliet tugs at one’s heartstrings, calls forth memories of love lost, and this story of woe, whose legacy is locked inside Verona’s walls, echoes down the streets and influences and ignites the lives and loves of all those who venture here, be they romantics, lovers, cynics or codpiece-clad fools.