Romeo and Juliet
Attired like a fashion plate out of his paper, the "Scarf of Iris," with
new gloves, polished boots, freshly shaven face, curled hair, waxed
moustache, stick in hand, glass in eye, smiling, youthful, altogether
nice looking, in such guise our friend, the poet Rodolphe, might have
been seen one November evening on the boulevard waiting for a cab to
take him home.
Rodolphe waiting for a cab? What cataclysm had then taken place in his
existence?
At the very hour that the transformed poet was twirling his moustache,
chewing the end of an enormous regalia, and charming the fair sex, one
of his friends was also passing down the boulevard. It was the
philosopher, Gustave Colline. Rodolphe saw him coming, and at once
recognized him; as indeed, who would not who had once seen him? Colline
as usual was laden with a dozen volumes. Clad in that immortal hazel
overcoat, the durability of which makes one believe that it must have
been built by the Romans, and with his head covered by his famous broad
brimmed hat, a dome of beaver, beneath which buzzed a swarm of
hyperphysical dreams, and which was nicknamed Mambrino's Helmet of
Modern Philosophy, Gustave Colline was walking slowly along, chewing the
cud of the preface of a book that had already been in the press for the
last three months--in his imagination. As he advanced towards the spot
where Rodolphe was standing, Colline thought for a moment that he
recognized him, but the supreme elegance displayed by the poet threw the
philosopher into a state of doubt and uncertainty.
"Rodolphe with gloves and a walking stick. Chimera! Utopia! Mental
aberration! Rodolphe curled and oiled; he who has not so much as Father
Time. What could I be thinking of? Besides, at this present moment my
unfortunate friend is engaged in lamentations, and is composing
melancholy verses upon the departure of Mademoiselle Mimi, who, I hear,
has thrown him over. Well, for my part, I too, regret the loss of that
young woman. She was a dab hand at making coffee, which is the beverage
of serious minds. But I trust that Rodolphe will console himself, and
soon get another Kettle-holder."
Colline was so delighted with his wretched joke, that he would willingly
have applauded it, had not the stern voice of philosophy woke up within
him, and put an energetic stop to this perversion of wit.
However, as he halted close to Rodolphe, Colline was forced to yield to
evidence. It was certainly Rodolphe, curled, gloved, and with a cane. It
was impossible, but it was true.
"Eh! Eh! By Jove!" said Colline. "I am not mistaken. It is you, I am
certain."
"So am I," replied Rodolphe.
Colline began to look at his friend, imparting to his countenance the
expression pictorially made use of by M. Lebrun, the king's painter in
ordinary, to express surprise. But all at once he noted two strange
articles with which Rodolphe was laden--firstly, a rope ladder, and
secondly, a cage, in which some kind of a bird was fluttering. At this
sight, Gustave Colline's physiognomy expressed a sentiment which
Monsieur Lebrun, the king's painter in ordinary, forgot to depict in his
picture of "The Passions."
"Come," said Rodolphe to his friend, "I see very plainly the curiosity
of your mind peeping out through the window of your eyes; and I am going
to satisfy it, only, let us quit the public thoroughfare. It is cold
enough here to freeze your questions and my answers."
And they both went into a cafe.
Colline's eyes remained riveted on the rope ladder as well as the cage,
in which the bird, thawed by the atmosphere of the cafe, began to sing
in a language unknown to Colline, who was, however, a polyglottist.
"Well then," said the philosopher pointing to the rope ladder, "what is
that?"
"A connecting link between my love and me," replied Rodolphe, in lute
like accents.
"And that?" asked Colline, pointing to the bird.
"That," said the poet, whose voice grew soft as the summer breeze, "is a
clock."
"Tell me without parables--in vile prose, but truly."
"Very well. Have you read Shakespeare?"
"Have I read him? 'To be or not to be?' He was a great philosopher. Yes,
I have read him."
"Do your remember _Romeo and Juliet_?"
"Do I remember?" said Colline, and he began to recite:
"Wilt thou begone? It is not yet day,
It was the nightingale, and not the lark."
"I should rather think I remember. But what then?"
"What!" said Rodolphe, pointing to the ladder and the bird. "You do not
understand! This is the story: I am in love, my dear fellow, in love
with a girl named Juliet."
"Well, what then?" said Colline impatiently.
"This. My new idol being named Juliet, I have hit on a plan. It is to go
through Shakespeare's play with her. In the first place, my name is no
longer Rodolphe, but Romeo Montague, and you will oblige me by not
calling me otherwise. Besides, in order that everyone may know it, I
have had some new visiting cards engraved. But that is not all. I shall
profit by the fact that we are not in Carnival time to wear a velvet
doublet and a sword."
"To kill Tybalt with?" said Colline.
"Exactly," continued Rodolphe. "Finally, this ladder that you see is to
enable me to visit my mistress, who, as it happens, has a balcony."
"But the bird, the bird?" said the obstinate Colline.
"Why, this bird, which is a pigeon, is to play the part of the
nightingale, and indicate every morning the precise moment when, as I am
about to leave her loved arms, my mistress will throw them about my neck
and repeat to me in her sweet tones the balcony scene, 'It is not yet
near day,' that is to say, 'It is not yet eleven, the streets are muddy,
do not go yet, we are comfortable here.' In order to perfect the
imitation, I will try to get a nurse, and place her under the orders of
my beloved and I hope that the almanac will be kind enough to grant me a
little moonlight now and then, when I scale my Juliet's balcony. What do
you say to my project, philosopher?"
"It is very fine," said Colline, "but could you also explain to me the
mysteries of this splendid outer covering that rendered you
unrecognizable? You have become rich, then?"
Rodolphe did not reply, but made a sign to one of the waiters, and
carelessly threw down a louis, saying:
"Take for what we have had."
Then he tapped his waistcoat pocket, which gave forth a jingling sound.
"Have you got a bell in your pocket, for it to jingle as loud as that?"
"Only a few louis."
"Louis! In gold?" said Colline, in a voice choked with wonderment. "Let
me see what they are like."
After which the two friends parted, Colline to go and relate the opulent
ways and new loves of Rodolphe, and the latter to return home.
This took place during the week that had followed the second rupture
between Rodolphe and Mademoiselle Mimi. The poet, when he had broken off
with his mistress, felt a need of change of air and surroundings, and
accompanied by his friend Marcel, he left the gloomy lodging house, the
landlord of which saw both him and Marcel depart without overmuch
regret. Both, as we have said, sought quarters elsewhere, and hired two
rooms in the same house and on the same floor. The room chosen by
Rodolphe was incomparably more comfortable than any he had inhabited up
till then. There were articles of furniture almost imposing, above all a
sofa covered with red stuff, that was intended to imitate velvet, and
did not.
There were also on the mantelpiece two china vases, painted with
flowers, between an elaborate clock, with fearful ornamentation.
Rodolphe put the vases in a cupboard, and when the landlord came to wind
up the clock, begged him to do nothing of the kind.
"I am willing to leave the clock on the mantel shelf," said he, "but
only as an object of art. It points to midnight--a good hour; let it
stick to it. The day it marks five minutes past I will move. A clock,"
continued Rodolphe, who had never been able to submit to the imperious
tyranny of the dial, "is a domestic foe who implacably reckons up to
your existence hour by hour and minute by minute, and says to you every
moment, 'Here is a fraction of your life gone.' I could not sleep in
peace in a room in which there was one of these instruments of torture,
in the vicinity of which carelessness and reverie are impossible. A
clock, the hands of which stretch to your bed and prick yours whilst you
are still plunged in the soft delights of your first awakening. A clock,
whose voice cries to you, 'Ting, ting, ting; it is the hour for
business. Leave your charming dream, escape from the caresses of your
visions, and sometimes of realities. Put on your hat and boots. It is
cold, it rains, but go about your business. It is time--ting, ting.' It
is quite enough already to have an almanac. Let my clock remain
paralyzed, or---."
Whilst delivering this monologue he was examining his new dwelling, and
felt himself moved by the secret uneasiness which one almost always
feels when going into a fresh lodging.
"I have noticed," he reflected, "that the places we inhabit exercise a
mysterious influence upon our thoughts, and consequently upon our
actions. This room is cold and silent as a tomb. If ever mirth reigns
here it will be brought in from without, and even then it will not be
for long, for laughter will die away without echoes under this low
ceiling, cold and white as a snowy sky. Alas! What will my life be like
within these four walls?"
However, a few days later this room, erst so sad, was full of light, and
rang with joyous sounds, it was the house warming, and numerous bottles
explained the lively humor of the guests. Rodolphe allowed himself to be
won upon by the contagious good humor of his guests. Isolated in a
corner with a young woman who had come there by chance, and whom he had
taken possession of, the poet was sonnetteering with her with tongue and
hands. Towards the close of the festivities he had obtained a rendezvous
for the next day.
"Well!" said he to himself when he was alone, "the evening hasn't been
such a bad one. My stay here hasn't begun amiss."
The next day Mademoiselle Juliet called at the appointed hour. The
evening was spent only in explanations. Juliet had learned the recent
rupture of Rodolphe with the blue eyed girl whom he had so dearly loved;
she knew that after having already left her once before Rodolphe had
taken her back, and she was afraid of being the victim of a similar
reawakening of love.
"You see," said she, with a pretty little pout, "I don't at all care
about playing a ridiculous part. I warn you that I am very forward, and
once _mistress_ here," and she underlined by a look the meaning she gave
to the word, "I remain, and do not give up my place."
Rodolphe summoned all his eloquence to the rescue to convince her that
her fears were without foundation, and the girl, having on her side a
willingness to be convinced, they ended by coming to an understanding.
Only they were no longer at an understanding when midnight struck, for
Rodolphe wanted Juliet to stay, and she insisted on going.
"No," she said to him as he persisted in trying to persuade her. "Why be
in such a hurry? We shall always arrive in time at what we want to,
provided you do not halt on the way. I will return tomorrow."
And she returned thus every evening for a week, to go away in the same
way when midnight struck.
This delay did not annoy Rodolphe very much. In matters of love, and
even of mere fancy, he was one of that school of travelers who prolong
their journey and render it picturesque. The little sentimental preface
had for its result to lead on Rodolphe at the outset further than he
meant to go. And it was no doubt to lead him to that point at which
fancy, ripened by the resistance opposed to it, begins to resemble love,
that Mademoiselle Juliet had made use of this stratagem.
At each fresh visit that she paid to Rodolphe, Juliet remarked a more
pronounced tone of sincerity in what he said. He felt when she was a
little behindhand in keeping her appointment an impatience that
delighted her, and he even wrote her letters the language of which was
enough to give her hopes that she would speedily become his legitimate
mistress.
When Marcel, who was his confidant, once caught sight of one of
Rodolphe's epistles, he said to him:
"Is it an exercise of style, or do you really think what you have said
here?"
"Yes, I really think it," replied Rodolphe, "and I am even a bit
astonished at it: but it is so. I was a week back in a very sad state of
mind. The solitude and silence that had so abruptly succeeded the storms
and tempests of my old household alarmed me terribly, but Juliet arrived
almost at the moment. I heard the sounds of twenty year old laughter
ring in my ears. I had before me a rosy face, eyes beaming with smiles,
a mouth overflowing with kisses, and I have quietly allowed myself to
glide down the hill of fancy that might perhaps lead me on to love. I
love to love."
However, Rodolphe was not long in perceiving that it only depended upon
himself to bring this little romance to a crisis, and it was than that
he had the notion of copying from Shakespeare the scene of the love of
_Romeo and Juliet_. His future mistress had deemed the notion amusing, and
agreed to share in the jest.
It was the very evening that the rendezvous was appointed for that
Rodolphe met the philosopher Colline, just as he had bought the rope
ladder that was to aid him to scale Juliet's balcony. The birdseller to
whom he had applied not having a nightingale, Rodolphe replaced it by a
pigeon, which he was assured sang every morning at daybreak.
Returned home, the poet reflected that to ascend a rope ladder was not
an easy matter, and that it would be a good thing to rehearse the
balcony scene, if he would not in addition to the chances of a fall, run
the risk of appearing awkward and ridiculous in the eyes of her who was
awaiting him. Having fastened his ladder to two nails firmly driven into
the ceiling, Rodolphe employed the two hours remaining to him in
practicing gymnastics, and after an infinite number of attempts,
succeeded in managing after a fashion to get up half a score of rungs.
"Come, that is all right," he said to himself, "I am now sure of my
affair and besides, if I stuck half way, 'love would lend me his
wings.'"
And laden with his ladder and his pigeon cage, he set out for the abode
of Juliet, who lived near. Her room looked into a little garden, and had
indeed a balcony. But the room was on the ground floor, and the balcony
could be stepped over as easily as possible.
Hence Rodolphe was completely crushed when he perceived this local
arrangement, which put to naught his poetical project of an escalade.
"All the same," said he to Juliet, "we can go through the episode of the
balcony. Here is a bird that will arouse us tomorrow with his melodious
notes, and warn us of the exact moment when we are to part from one
another in despair."
And Rodolphe hung up the cage beside the fireplace.
The next day at five in the morning the pigeon was exact to time, and
filled the room with a prolonged cooing that would have awakened the two
lovers--if they had gone to sleep.
"Well," said Juliet, "this is the moment to go into the balcony and bid
one another despairing farewells--what do you think of it?"
"The pigeon is too fast," said Rodolphe. "It is November, and the sun
does not rise till noon."
"All the same," said Juliet, "I am going to get up."
"Why?"
"I feel quite empty, and I will not hide from you the fact that I could
very well eat a mouthfull."
"The agreement that prevails in our sympathies is astonishing. I am
awfully hungry too," said Rodolphe, also rising and hurriedly slipping
on his clothes.
Juliet had already lit a fire, and was looking in her sideboard to see
whether she could find anything. Rodolphe helped her in this search.
"Hullo," said he, "onions."
"And some bacon," said Juliet.
"Some butter."
"Bread."
Alas! That was all.
During the search the pigeon, a careless optimist, was singing on its
perch.
Romeo looked at Juliet, Juliet looked at Romeo, and both looked at the
pigeon.
They did not say anything, but the fate of the pigeon-clock was settled.
Even if he had appealed it would have been useless, hunger is such a
cruel counsellor.
Rodolphe had lit some charcoal, and was turning bacon in the spluttering
butter with a solemn air.
Juliet was peeling onions in a melancholy attitude.
The pigeon was still singing, it was the song of the swan.
To these lamentations was joined the spluttering of the butter in the
stew pan.
Five minutes later the butter was still spluttering, but the pigeon sang
no longer.
Romeo and Juliet grilled their clock.
"He had a nice voice," said Juliet sitting down to table.
"He is very tender," said Rodolphe, carving his alarum, nicely browned.
The two lovers looked at one another, and each surprised a tear in the
other's eye.
Hypocrites, it was the onions that made them weep.