The Masked Ball

There was a long-standing feud between the houses of Montague and Capulet, two of the noblest families of ancient Italy, and the narrow streets of Verona rang constantly with the sound of brawl and strife. The enmity between the heads of the family and their noble kinsmen descended, of course, to their retainers, and the servants of both houses never met without quarrel, and frequent bloodshed. The Prince of Verona vainly tried to stop this incessant bickering; again and again it burst out with renewed fury. Three serious outbreaks had already occurred in the city, when not only the servants of the families, but even respectable citizens had joined in the fray, and became for the moment furious partisans of one side or the other. Finally, the Prince, enraged by another of these skirmishes, started by the servants, but joined in afterwards by the heads of the houses themselves, pronounced sentence indignantly on Montague and Capulet. If ever they disturbed the streets again, he declared, their lives should pay the forfeit of the peace.

When the rioters had dispersed and the Prince had retired, Lady Montague began to make anxious inquiry about her son, saying how glad she was he had not been in the fray. Her nephew Benvolio replied that an hour before dawn, driven to walk abroad by a troubled mind, he had seen young Romeo walking in a grove of sycamore outside the city, but that, as soon as Romeo became aware of his approach, he stole away into the covert of the wood. To this Montague added that his son had been seen there many mornings, evidently in deep sorrow, and that when he was in the house he penned himself up in his own room, shut up his windows, locked out the fair daylight, and made an artificial night for himself. Montague neither knew the cause of this strange behaviour, nor could he learn it of him, though both he and his friends had earnestly entreated Romeo to tell them the cause of his grief.

At this moment the young man himself came in sight, and Benvolio hastily begged his uncle and Lady Montague to step aside, saying that he would certainly find out what was the matter. Perhaps Benvolio used more tact in dealing with his cousin, or perhaps Romeo was at last not sorry to confide his trouble; at any rate, he confessed to Benvolio that the reason of his unhappiness was that he was in love with a beautiful lady called Rosaline, who was very cold and indifferent, and did not in the least return his affection.

As there seemed no hope of Romeo’s winning the lady, Benvolio very sensibly advised him to think no more about her, but to try to find someone else equally beautiful and charming. Romeo replied that this was quite impossible, but Benvolio did not at all despair of effecting his cure.

And, as it happened, the very remedy suggested was successful, and that within the next few hours. This was how it came about.

The rival house of Capulet, like that of Montague, boasted of but one child, but while the Montagues’ was a son, Romeo, the Capulets’ only surviving offspring was a daughter, a lovely young girl called Juliet.

Up to the present Juliet had been too youthful to take part in the gaieties of the world, but a certain noble young Count called Paris, a kinsman of the Prince of Verona, had already been attracted by her charms, and now begged permission from her father to pay his suit to her. Capulet replied that Juliet was very young still to think of marriage, but that if Paris liked to try to win her heart, and succeeded in doing so, he would willingly add his consent to hers. Further, he said that he was holding that night an old-accustomed feast, to which he had invited a number of guests, including many beautiful maidens; among them Paris would behold his daughter, and he could then compare her with others, and judge whether she still surpassed them as he now thought. He was to see all, hear all, and to like her the best whose merit should be the most.

The servant sent out by Capulet to carry his invitations was no scholar, and happening to meet Romeo and Benvolio, he appealed to them to read over to him the list of invited guests. Among the names written there, Romeo found that of Rosaline, with other admired beauties of Verona, and Benvolio advised him to go to the ball, and without prejudice to compare her face with some of the other ladies present, when he would find that, after all, she was no such paragon.

Romeo replied that he would go, not for this reason, but to delight in the splendour of his own lady.

Even although it was to an enemy’s house he was going, and he was placing himself in grave peril if his identity were discovered, it was not a difficult matter for Romeo to gain admittance to the Capulets, for all the guests were to go in fancy dress, and wear masks. Romeo chose the disguise of a pilgrim. When the night came he was still sad at heart, and declared he would join in no dancing; he had a soul of lead that bore him to the ground, so that he could hardly move.

Besides Benvolio, on this night, Romeo had with him another friend, a very light-hearted, witty gentleman, called Mercutio, a kinsman of the Prince of Verona. As they went along, Mercutio tried to laugh Romeo out of his melancholy mood, and to chase away his sadness with his gay chatter. But nothing he could say served to cheer up Romeo; a dark misgiving seemed to hang over him, and it was with no festive spirit that he entered the brilliantly lighted hall of Capulet’s house.

All here was splendour and gaiety. Crowds of quaintly dressed figures wandered to and fro. Capulet himself, with his daughter Juliet and others of his house, received the guests, and gave them a hearty welcome. Then the music began, and the dancers grouped themselves for the stately and graceful measures of those days.

Romeo was late in arriving, and the dancing had already begun when he entered the hall. He stood for a while looking on at the scene. His Rosaline, no doubt, was there, among other proud beauties of Verona, but to-night her sway was to be broken for ever. For there among the dancers was one who far surpassed her fellows, even as a snowy dove trooping with crows. In the dazzling radiance of her first youthful bloom, moved the daughter of the house, and when he saw this slender maiden with her peerless beauty, and her locks of shining gold, all lesser feelings melted out of Romeo’s heart, and he knew he had never really loved till now.

Romeo’s half-uttered exclamations of rapture were overheard by a nephew of Lady Capulet’s, a fiery nobleman called Tybalt, always ready for brawls and quarrelling.

“This, by his voice, should be a Montague,” he said, and immediately ordered his page to fetch his rapier. “How dares the slave come hither, covered with an antic face, to fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by the honour of my kin, I would hold it no sin to strike him dead.”

“Why, how now, kinsman? Why do you storm so?” asked Capulet.

“Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe—a villain who has come here in spite to scorn at our solemnity.”

“Young Romeo, is it?”

“It is he—that villain Romeo!”

“Content you, gentle cousin, let him alone,” said Capulet. “He bears himself like a gallant gentleman, and to say truth, Verona boasts him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth. I would not for the wealth of all the town do him any wrong here in my house. Therefore be patient, take no notice of him—it is my will, and if you respect it, show an amiable face, and put off those frowns, which are not a pleasing expression at a feast.”

“It fits when such a villain is a guest,” said Tybalt sullenly. “I’ll not endure him!”

“He shall be endured,” said Capulet sternly. “What, goodman boy! I say he shall; go to! Am I the master here, or you? Go to! You’ll not endure him! You’ll make a mutiny among my guests! You’ll be the man!”

“Why, uncle, it’s a shame,” persisted Tybalt.

“Go to—go to!” cried the exasperated old man. “You are a saucy boy! Go! Be quiet, or——More light! More light!—I’ll make you quiet.”

Burning with wrath against Romeo, and furious at the rebuke which his presumption had won from his uncle, Tybalt withdrew, silenced for the moment, but his heart filled with the bitterest spite, and determining to be revenged at the first opportunity for the humiliation he had suffered.

In the meanwhile the dance was ended, and Romeo had been able to approach Juliet. In his rÔle of a pilgrim he carried on with her a half-jesting conversation which barely veiled the deep devotion he was already beginning to feel; and, according to the customs of those days, he was even permitted to salute the lady with a courteous kiss.

Their conversation was interrupted by Juliet’s nurse, who came to summon Juliet to her mother, and then Romeo learnt for the first time that the young girl who had so enchanted him was the daughter of the house, a Capulet, the child of his foe.

And a few minutes later, Juliet, also making eager inquiry about the young guest in the guise of a pilgrim, heard that his name was Romeo, a Montague, the only son of the great enemy of her father’s house.

Mercutio

When the ball was over, Romeo’s friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, looked for him to return with them, but Romeo was nowhere to be found. Unable to leave the neighbourhood of the lady who had so suddenly taken possession of his heart, Romeo had scaled the wall of Capulet’s orchard. As he drew near the house, a window above opened, and Juliet herself stepped out on to a balcony. Romeo was hidden among the shadows of the trees, but the silver rays of a summer moon shone full on Juliet, and lighted up her sweet young face and her ball-dress of shimmering white satin.

Like Romeo, Juliet was sad at heart, for all her thoughts were running on the gallant young stranger, and it grieved her to remember that he was the son of her father’s enemy. Believing herself to be alone, Juliet spoke her meditations aloud, and in the silence of the night they were clearly heard by the unseen listener below.

“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” she sighed. “Deny thy father, and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, only swear to love me, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” said Romeo to himself, enraptured at hearing such words.

“It is only thy name that is my enemy,” continued Juliet. “What’s ‘Montague’? It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.... Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee, take all myself!”

“I take thee at thy word!” cried Romeo, unable to keep silence any longer. “Call me but love, and I will be new baptized; henceforth I never will be Romeo!”

Juliet was greatly startled to find that her rash words had been overheard, but she soon recognised the voice to be that of Romeo. She warned him of the peril he ran if he should be discovered, but Romeo cared little for the swords of her kinsmen, provided that he won the love of the lady. It was too late now to deny what she had so frankly confessed, and the darkness of the night hid Juliet’s blushes. She therefore took courage, and spoke out candidly, saying that if Romeo really loved her, let him pronounce it faithfully, and though he might think she was too easily won, yet she would prove more true than many who had more cunning in feigning coldness.

Romeo was all fire and eagerness, and was beginning to swear his unswerving constancy when Juliet checked him. Her heart was still troubled, and, though she rejoiced to find that Romeo loved her, she could scarcely rejoice in the contract they had made; it seemed too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, to last. But if Romeo’s purpose still held, and he wished to marry her, Juliet bade him send word the next day by a trusty messenger, where and at what time the ceremony should be performed; and she would lay all her fortune at his feet, and follow him, her husband, throughout the world.

In this sudden emergency Romeo knew to whom to apply. There was a good old man, called Friar Laurence, a friend of both the families, who was much grieved at the bitter dissension between them, and had many times tried to induce them to become reconciled. Friar Laurence had often chided Romeo for his extravagant doating on Rosaline, and his unrestrained grief because she would not listen to him. The good man was somewhat astonished at this sudden turn of events; he foresaw that one of Romeo’s passionate, excitable nature was never likely to be happy; the hot-headed young man was always in extremes, either in a state of rapture or in the depths of despair. He would listen to no counsel, and never paused to reflect. But when Friar Laurence on this occasion understood what was wanted of him, he did not refuse his aid, for he thought this alliance might prove so happy that it would turn the rancour of the two households into peace and love. So word was sent to Juliet, and, with the connivance of her old nurse, who was fully in the confidence of the two young lovers, Juliet stole away the next morning to Friar Laurence’s cell, and was there secretly married to Romeo.

---

On this same morning of the marriage it happened that Romeo’s friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, were walking through Verona. It was a very hot day, and Benvolio presently suggested they should go home, saying that the Capulets were abroad, and that if they met, they would certainly not escape a brawl, for these hot days fevered the blood, and made men quarrelsome.

Mercutio laughed at Benvolio’s caution, and accused him of being as hot-tempered a man as any in Italy.

“Nay, if there were two such we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other,” he said jeeringly. “Thou! Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast; thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, and with another for tying his new shoes with old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!”

“If I were as ready to quarrel as thou art,” retorted Benvolio, “any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.”

It will easily be seen that these gentlemen were not in the most amiable frame of mind, and it was unfortunate that at that moment a party of the Capulets should come up, among them being the fiery-tempered nephew of Lady Capulet. The incident of the night before still rankled in Tybalt’s mind, and any friend of Romeo’s was fit subject on which to wreak his spite. But Mercutio was not a man to brook insult, and he returned Tybalt’s insolence with interest.

“Gentlemen, good-day; a word with one of you,” said Tybalt, advancing.

“Only one word with one of us?” said Mercutio in a mocking voice. “Couple it with something: make it a word and a blow.”

“You shall find me apt enough at that, sir, if you give me occasion,” said Tybalt, glaring at him.

“Could you not take some occasion without giving?” sneered Mercutio.

“Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo——”

“Consort!” echoed Mercutio. “What, do you make us minstrels? If you make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that which shall make you dance!” And he laid his hand threateningly on his sword.

“We talk here in the public haunt of men,” interposed Benvolio, for their wrangling had begun to attract the attention of two or three inquisitive passers-by. “Either withdraw to some private place, and talk over your grievances calmly, or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.”

“Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze,” said Mercutio coolly. “I will not budge for any man’s pleasure, I!”

“Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man,” said Tybalt, for he saw Romeo approaching.

“But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wears your livery!” said Mercutio.

Straight from his marriage with Juliet, his heart full of joy, and his spirit breathing peace to all mankind, came Romeo. Even the insult with which Tybalt greeted him did not at such a moment rouse his anger. Tybalt was Juliet’s kinsman; in his overflowing love for Juliet, Romeo could not quarrel with one who might be dear to her.

“Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford no better term than this—thou art a villain!” said Tybalt.

“Tybalt,” returned Romeo mildly, “the reason I have for loving you prevents the rage which should follow such a greeting. I am no villain. Therefore, farewell. I see you do not know me.”

“Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries you have done me. Therefore turn and draw.”

“I do protest, I never injured you, but love you better than you can guess, till you shall know the reason of my love. And so, good Capulet—which name I speak as dearly as my own—be satisfied.”

Mercutio had listened in amazement to Romeo’s gentle responses to Tybalt’s insults, but at this he could contain himself no further.

“O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” he cried in wrath, and drew his sword. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?”

“What would you have with me?”

“Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Will you pluck out your sword? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears before it be out.”

“I am for you,” said Tybalt, drawing.

“Gentle Mercutio, put your rapier up,” entreated Romeo.

“Come, sir, begin,” was Mercutio’s only answer.

“Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons,” cried Romeo imploringly. “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince has expressly forbidden fighting in the streets of Verona. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!”

In his eagerness to stay the combatants, Romeo tried to strike up their weapons, and Tybalt, seizing his advantage, stabbed Mercutio under Romeo’s arm. Then, seeing him reel back into Benvolio’s arms, Tybalt fled with his followers.

“I am hurt,” said Mercutio. “A plague on both your houses! I am done for.... Is he gone, and hath nothing?”

“What, are you hurt?” said Benvolio.

“Ay, ay, a scratch—a scratch,” said Mercutio, with an attempt at his old light manner. “Marry, it’s enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.”

“Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much,” said Romeo tenderly.

“No, it’s not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,” said Mercutio, in his usual jesting style, though he could only gasp out the words with difficulty; “but it’s enough; it will serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.... A plague on both your houses! ... Why the devil did you come between us? I was hurt under your arm.”

“I thought all for the best,” said poor Romeo.

“Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint,” gasped Mercutio.... “A plague on both your houses! ... they have made worm’s meat of me ... your houses....”

Benvolio supported Mercutio away, but returned in a few minutes with the mournful tidings that the brave and gallant spirit had taken flight. Mercutio, the brilliant wit, the loyal friend, the light-hearted comrade, had fallen a victim to the dissension between the houses of Montague and Capulet. Jealous of his friend’s honour, as of his own, he had risked all in its defence, and he faced death, as he had done life, with undaunted bearing and a smile on his lips.

Benvolio had scarcely told the news when back came Tybalt, and, furious at the loss of his friend, Romeo hurled aside all thoughts of leniency, and straightway sprang at his murderer. The fight was brief, and Tybalt fell. Romeo was hastily hurried off by Benvolio, for the whole town was now in an uproar, and he knew that, if taken, Romeo would probably be doomed to death. Dazed by all the calamities which had suddenly fallen on him, Romeo let himself be persuaded, and departed almost in a dream.

The Prince of Verona now arrived, also Capulet and Montague, and crowds of other citizens. In reply to the Prince’s inquiries, Benvolio gave an account of what had happened, telling the story in the most favourable light he could for the absent Romeo, whose fault, indeed, it had no wise been. He told how Tybalt had provoked him, and how Romeo had tried to keep the peace, reminding the quarrelsome nobleman of the Prince’s displeasure; also how Tybalt had slain Mercutio when Romeo was trying to stop the duel; and how, after Mercutio’s death, Tybalt had come back and fought with Romeo. Before Benvolio could part them, Tybalt was slain, and now Romeo had fled.

The Capulets began to clamour for revenge. Benvolio, they said, was a kinsman to the Montagues, and his affection made him speak falsely; the matter was not as he described it. They begged for justice. Romeo had slain Tybalt; Romeo must die.

“Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio,” said the Prince, grieving for the loss of his own kinsman. “Who owes the price for Mercutio’s dear blood?”

“Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio’s friend,” said Montague. “His fault only concludes what the law should have ended—the life of Tybalt.”

“And for that offence we exile him immediately,” pronounced the Prince, determined by severe measures to put a stop to the incessant brawling that was bringing sorrow to so many noble families. “I have suffered because of your hate—my dear kinsman is slain. But I will punish you with so heavy a fine that you shall all repent my loss. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; neither tears nor prayers shall soften this sentence, therefore use none. Let Romeo leave the city at once; else, when he is found, that hour shall be his last. Mercy only encourages murder when it pardons those who kill.”

“Banished!”

When Juliet hastened to Friar Laurence’s cell to be married to Romeo, her nurse went off in another direction, to secure a ladder of cords, so that the young husband might visit his wife that evening, and speak to her with less danger of discovery than if she were up in the balcony and he below in the orchard.

This nurse of Juliet’s was a talkative, easy-tempered old person, very fond of her nursling—of whom she had had charge since she was a baby—and good-natured after a fashion, but vulgar-minded, and very selfish if anything came to cross her own convenience. Juliet had coaxed her into sympathy about her present affairs, and Romeo, being a very handsome, open-handed young gentleman, the nurse for the moment was on their side, and consented to act as messenger between them. But her own aches and pains were at all times more important to the old woman than the concerns of anyone else; and even when returning from her mission to settle the time of the marriage, she was more occupied in recounting her own ailments than in relieving the anxiety of her young mistress to hear news of Romeo.

However, as long as things went well, she was willing to be amiable, and the young girl was at least not left entirely destitute of any confidant. But when trouble arose, the nurse’s shallow, selfish nature became apparent, and poor Juliet was soon to learn that she must rely solely on her own strength and judgment in the sorrows that overwhelmed her.

After the marriage Juliet returned home, and there presently the nurse joined her. She carried the ladder of cords she had gone to fetch, but she flung it down with a gesture of despair, and her face was the picture of woe.

“Ay me! What news? Why do you wring your hands?” exclaimed Juliet, a sudden chill of terror clouding the sunshine of her joy.

“Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!” wailed the nurse. “We are undone, lady—we are undone! Alack the day! He’s gone, he’s killed, he’s dead!”

Juliet thought, of course, that the nurse referred to Romeo, especially when she went on weeping and wailing and saying that she had seen him lying dead with her own eyes. Juliet’s heart was nearly broken at the dreadful news, when suddenly the stupid old woman, in her confused style began to lament:

“O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! Honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead!”

“What do you mean?” said poor, bewildered Juliet. “Is Romeo slaughtered, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-loved cousin and my dearer lord?”

“Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,” said the nurse. “Romeo that killed him, he is banished.”

Her words were plain enough now. Juliet shrank back in horror.

“Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?”

“It did—it did. Alas the day, it did!”

Juliet’s first impulse was to heap reproaches on her newly made husband, who hid so vile a nature under so fair a seeming; but when the nurse chimed eagerly in, and said there was no trust, no faith, no honesty in man,— they were all perjured, all dissemblers, Juliet immediately changed her tone, and broke into an indignant defence of Romeo.

“Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?” asked the nurse.

“Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?” cried Juliet. “Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name when I, thy three-hours wife, have wronged it?”

Worse, far worse to her, than her cousin’s death was the terrible news that Romeo was banished. “Tybalt is dead, and Romeo—banished!” The dreadful words kept ringing in her ears. “Romeo is banished! There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, in that word’s death; no words can fathom that woe,” she mourned.

Juliet bade the nurse carry away the ladder of cords, for it was of no use now. Romeo was exiled, she would never see him again; death, and not Romeo, would be her husband.

The old woman was melted to pity at the sight of Juliet’s misery.

“Go to your room,” she said soothingly. “I’ll find Romeo to comfort you. I know well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I’ll go to him; he is hidden in Friar Laurence’s cell.”

“Oh, find him! Give this ring to my true knight,” cried Juliet, “and bid him come to take his last farewell.”

---

Forced to find a refuge after the death of Tybalt, Romeo had gone to the man who had always been a friend to him, and the good Friar Laurence had given him shelter in his cell. He then sallied forth to learn how matters were going, and presently returned with the news of the doom that the Prince had pronounced—Romeo was banished. Romeo was in despair when he heard the sentence. To him banishment seemed worse than death. In vain the Friar tried to comfort him, pointing out that the sentence was more merciful than what he had a right to expect. Romeo declared it was torture, and not mercy. Heaven was here where Juliet lived; and henceforth every cat and dog, and little mouse, and unworthy thing, might look at her, but he might not. Every creature was free, but he was banished. Was there no poison, no sharp knife, no sudden way of death, however mean, that might have killed him, that he must live on in torture, with that word “banished”?

The good Friar tried to reason with him, but for the moment Romeo was past all reason; he refused to listen to any words of counsel, and flung himself down on the ground in a perfect frenzy of grief.

At that moment there came a knocking at the outside door.

“Arise; someone is knocking. Good Romeo hide thyself,” entreated the Friar.

But Romeo refused to stir. The knocking came again, louder and more imperative.

“Hark how they knock!... Who’s there?... Romeo, arise; thou wilt be taken.... Stay awhile.... Stand up! Run to my study.... In a minute.... Heavens! what folly is this?... I come—I come!”

The Friar’s entreaties to Romeo were mixed with broken ejaculations to the person knocking outside, but as the headstrong young man refused to move from the spot where he had flung himself down on the floor of the cell, Friar Laurence dared no longer delay to open the door.

Happily the new-comer was only Juliet’s nurse, and no dangerous or inquisitive visitor. Romeo eagerly demanded news, and then, in a fresh passion of remorse at the misery he had brought on his dear lady, threatened madly to kill himself, and drew his sword.

The Friar stayed his hand, and now began sternly to rebuke him for his frantic behaviour and unmanly lack of all self-control. Then he pointed out that he had still many blessings left to him, though he chose sullenly to ignore them. Juliet still lived—he was happy in that; the law that might have condemned him to death had turned it into exile—he was happy in that; finally, the Friar bade him go to Juliet as had been arranged, and comfort her.

“But take care not to stay till the watch be set,” he counselled, “for then you cannot pass to Mantua, where you shall live till we can find a time to publish your marriage, reconcile your friends, beg pardon of the Prince, and call you back, with twenty hundred thousand times more joy than you went forth in lamentation.”

Romeo was greatly cheered by the brave words of the Friar, and the nurse hurried back to Juliet with the news that her husband would soon be with her.

Comfort and Counsel

The second parting of Romeo and Juliet at the balcony looking into Capulet’s orchard was very different from the first. Then, indeed, Romeo had reluctantly torn himself away; but, after all, they had another happier meeting to look forward to on the morrow. Now, all was gloom and uncertainty, and who knew when they would ever see each other again? The lark, the herald of the morning, that sang joyously high overhead,—the golden rays of dawn that pierced the eastern clouds,—only brought sadness to the hearts of the young husband and wife, for they told that the fatal hour of parting had come. Longing to keep Romeo with her, yet dreading the peril he ran if he delayed too long, Juliet one moment implored him to stay, and the next urged him to depart.

“Oh, now be gone; more light and light it grows,” she sighed at last; and Romeo echoed despairingly:

“More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!”

At this moment the nurse came hastily to warn Juliet that her mother was approaching, and now indeed Romeo must take his last farewell. As Juliet looked down to him from the balcony it seemed to her that Romeo’s face, in the gray light of dawn, looked pale as one in the bottom of a tomb, and even his cheering words that spoke of a future meeting failed to bring comfort to her breaking heart.

But she had no time to brood over this sorrow, for she was now called to face another and almost more terrible trial.

Lady Capulet had come to her daughter’s room at this unusual hour to bring news of great importance. The County Paris had renewed his suit to Juliet’s father. All was arranged; the marriage was fixed to take place in three days’ time, on the following Thursday. It did not occur to the parents that Juliet would have any voice in the matter; or, rather, Lady Capulet thought it would be joyful tidings to her, and would help to console her for the death of her cousin Tybalt. She was, therefore, somewhat astonished to find the way in which her news was received. In answer to her intelligence that early next Thursday the gallant, young, and noble gentleman, the County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, would happily make Juliet a joyful bride, her daughter exclaimed with fire:

“Now, by Saint Peter’s Church and Peter too, he shall not make me there a joyful bride!”

Juliet went on to say that she would not marry in this haste, and when she did marry it would be Romeo, their enemy, rather than Paris.

Then in came Capulet, her father, and, deaf to all Juliet’s pleadings, he swore in a furious rage that she should marry Paris; and if she did not, she might beg, starve, die in the streets, for he would not own her as a daughter.

Juliet appealed to her mother, but Lady Capulet was really angry with her, or perhaps she did not dare to go against her husband; at any rate, she took his side in the matter, and harshly refused to listen to anything Juliet might say.

“Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee,” were her final cruel words, as she followed her husband from the room.

Cut to the heart, stunned with misery, Juliet turned to her last hope. Her old nurse was still beside her; she, at least, knew that what her parents demanded was impossible; she knew that Juliet could not marry Paris, for she was already married to Romeo. Perhaps she could suggest some way of escape.

“Comfort me, counsel me,” implored the distracted young girl. “What say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse.”

And this is the comfort and counsel the old nurse gave. Romeo was banished, she said; she would wager anything he would never dare to come back to challenge her, or, if he did, it would have to be by stealth. Then, since the case stood as it did, she thought the best thing would be for Juliet to marry the County Paris. Oh, he was a lovely gentleman! Romeo was nothing to him! Indeed, she thought Juliet very happy in her second match, for it far excelled her first; or, if it did not, her first was dead, or he might just as well be dead as living, when banished from Juliet.

So spoke the selfish, base-minded old woman. Juliet looked at her fixedly.

“Do you speak this from your heart?” she asked solemnly.

“And from my soul too,” returned the old woman, “or evil befall them.”

“Amen!” said Juliet.

“What?”

“Well, you have comforted me marvellous much,” said Juliet, speaking with strange calm. “Go in, and tell my lady that, having displeased my father, I have gone to Friar Laurence’s cell to make confession and to be absolved.”

“Marry I will, and this is wisely done,” said the old nurse, pottering away to fulfil her errand.

Then, for a moment, Juliet’s self-restraint gave way.

“Oh, most wicked fiend!” she cried, in just indignation. “Is it more sin to wish me to be thus forsworn, or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue with which she has praised him as above compare so many thousand times! Go, counsellor; thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I will go to the Friar to ask his remedy. If everything else fail, I have power myself to die.”

The good Friar did not fail the young girl in her need, as the old nurse had done. But the way of escape he suggested was such a terrible one that none but the bravest and most faithful heart could ever have consented to it. Juliet’s position, however, was so desperate, and she was so determined to be true to Romeo, that she would have died rather than have married Paris; and now she declared she was ready to go down to the gates of death itself if only she might live a true wife to Romeo.

Seeing her resolution, Friar Laurence went on to describe his plan. The marriage was to take place two days hence, on the Thursday. On the Wednesday night Juliet, when she went to bed, was to drink off the contents of a phial, which the Friar would give her. This was a very strong sleeping draught, which would make her lie exactly like dead, pale as ashes, stiff and cold, for forty-two hours, after which she would awaken as if from a pleasant sleep. On the Thursday morning, when they came to rouse her for the marriage, they would find her apparently dead, and then—according to the custom of the country—in her best robes, uncovered on the bier, she would be borne to the ancient vault of the Capulets.

In the meantime, before she awoke, news would be sent to Romeo to tell him everything. He would come back to Verona, and he and Friar Laurence would watch beside Juliet in the vault until she awoke, and that very same night Romeo should convey her away to Mantua.

This was the desperate plan which the Friar suggested, and which Juliet’s love for her husband gave her strength to accept and carry out. With unflinching courage she seized the little phial, while Friar Laurence went immediately to despatch a speedy messenger to Mantua with letters to Romeo.

All through the night before the marriage there was bustle and stir in the household of the Capulets. Great preparations were being made for the festivities, and Capulet himself was up all night, urging forward the servants, and hurrying them here and there about their different tasks. As the moments sped by, he became more and more excited, and when the musicians arrived to serenade the bride on her wedding morning, he shouted to the nurse to go and waken Juliet at once, and get her dressed.

“Hie, make haste!” he said. “I’ll go and chat with Paris. Make haste, make haste! The bridegroom, he is come already! Make haste, I say!”

So the nurse went to Juliet’s chamber....

How calm and restful was everything here! What a contrast to the rush and noisy confusion outside the closed door! Not a sound broke the stillness, not a rustle of movement showed that any living creature was an inmate of the room. Behind those drawn curtains the bride slept well.

But she must rouse herself now; the time for slumber is past. She must shake off the heaviness from her dreaming eyes; she must leave this peaceful haven of her childhood; her happy girlish days are over and done with. The wedding feast is set, the guests are assembling, the bridegroom is waiting. Wake, Juliet, awaken!...

Shout, nurse, wail for sorrow, and wring your hands. Call louder, the bride does not hear you. Weep, mother, for the child whom you turned from when living; mourn, father, for the daughter you rejected and disowned.

There in her bridal robes lies the bride upon her bed, pale as ashes, stiff and cold. The snowy whiteness of her wedding raiment is not more white than her face; her closed eyes smile back no greeting to the rising sun. The little phial has done its work. Here at the door stands the bridegroom, but to the mourners in that desolate chamber it seems that a mightier than he has stepped before him and claimed the bride, and the name of that bridegroom is Death.

The Palace of Dim Night

Friar Laurence had done his best for the young lovers, and he carried out his scheme with speed and vigilance. But an unfortunate accident prevented the letters he wrote to Romeo ever reaching their destination. The friar to whom he entrusted them went to find a brother friar of their order to go with him. This man was occupied in visiting the sick; the plague was then raging in Verona, and the searchers of the town, finding Friar John and his companion, and suspecting they were both in a house where the pestilence was, sealed up the doors, and refused to let them forth. Thus Friar John never got to Mantua at all, and he was even unable to forward the letter to Romeo or to return it to Friar Laurence, so fearful was everyone of infection.

On his release, two days later, he hurried back to the cell of Friar Laurence, and the latter learnt with dismay how his plan had failed. There was now only one thing to be done: he must go to the vault alone, to be there when Juliet awakened, for in three hours’ time the power of the sleeping potion would be exhausted.

Though Friar Laurence’s message never got to Romeo, other tidings of sadder import reached him. When Romeo had started for Mantua, he left his servant, Balthasar, to follow him later with all news. Balthasar, of course, like all Verona, had heard of the tragedy at the Capulets’ house, and never doubted of the truth of Juliet’s death. At the moment he reached Mantua, it happened that Romeo was in the highest spirits; an unaccustomed lightness of heart seemed that day to have taken possession of him. As he strolled through the streets of Mantua just before Balthasar’s arrival, Romeo was musing happily over a dream of good omen that he had had the night before.

“My dream foretells some joyful news at hand,” he thought.“ I dreamt my lady came and found me dead—strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!—and breathed such life with kisses on my lips that I revived, and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself, when but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!”

At that moment Balthasar appeared, just as he had come off his journey. Romeo’s heart leapt up anew at the sight of him.

“News from Verona!” he cried. “How now, Balthasar? Do you not bring me letters from the Friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? I ask that again, for nothing can be ill if she be well.”

Balthasar bowed his head, and spoke sadly and solemnly.

“Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capulet’s monument, and her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, and took post at once to tell it you. Oh, pardon me for bringing this ill news, since you left it for my office, sir.”

Stunned by the blow. Romeo made no loud outcry; those who are stricken to the heart have no power to bewail their misery.

“Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars!” was all he said, when he heard the fatal tidings. The boyish turbulence, the violent outpourings of grief, the noisy despair that had followed his former woes found no voice in his present calamity. His was the calmness of one who knows that for him all hope is over. “You know my lodging; get me ink and paper,” he said to Balthasar. “And hire post-horses. I will hence to-night.”

“I do beseech you, sir, have patience,” said the serving-man. “Your looks are wild and pale, and import some misadventure.”

“Tush! You are deceived,” said Romeo. “Leave me, and do the thing I bid you do. Have you no letters to me from the Friar?”

“No, my good lord.”

“No matter. Get you gone, and hire those horses. I’ll be with you directly.”

Romeo’s resolution was taken. Juliet was dead. Well, he would die too. Now for the means. Then Romeo remembered that near the very spot where he was standing dwelt an old apothecary—a meagre wretch, wasted with misery and famine, whose sordid little shop contained a few musty odds and ends of rubbish, thinly scattered to make up a show. Noting this penury when he had first seen him, Romeo had said to himself: “Now, if a man needed a poison whose sale would be instant death in Mantua, here lives a caitiff wretch who would sell it him.” That thought had only been the forerunner of his present need, and now he found that, won over by the handsome bribe offered, the starving apothecary could indeed supply him with a fatal drug of deadly power.

---

The hour of awakening had not yet come, and Juliet still slept peacefully in her strange abode of death.

To the churchyard at night came the gallant County Paris, to lay flowers at the tomb of the young bride who had been so untimely snatched away. His little page kept watch at a distance, while Paris laid the flowers with loving words at the door of the tomb.

Warned by a whistle from the page, Paris retired into the shadow, as other footsteps were heard approaching. Romeo, accompanied by Balthasar, bearing a torch and some tools for opening the vault, now came near, and Paris could hear the instructions Romeo gave his servant.

“Give me the mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning see you deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light. I charge you on your life, whatever you hear or see, stand quite aloof, and do not interrupt me in what I am doing. The reason I descend into this abode of death is partly to behold my lady’s face, but chiefly to take from her dead finger a precious ring. Therefore, hence, begone! But if you jealously return to pry into what I further intend to do, by heaven, I will tear you joint from joint!”

“I will begone, sir, and not trouble you,” replied Balthasar; but, all the same, he intended to hide himself somewhere near, for he feared the looks of Romeo, and doubted his intention.

When the serving-man had retired, Romeo took up the tools, and began to wrench open the door of the tomb. But now Paris came forward to interfere.

“This is that banished, haughty Montague,” he said to himself, “who murdered my love’s cousin, out of grief for whom it is supposed she died. Now he has come here to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies. I will seize him. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague! Can vengeance be pursued further than death? Villain, I seize thee! Obey, and go with me, for thou must die.”

“I must indeed, and therefore came I hither,” said Romeo. “Good, gentle youth, do not tempt a desperate man. Fly hence and leave me; think on those who are dead. I beseech thee, youth, do not put another sin on my head by urging me to fury. Oh, begone! By heaven, I love thee better than myself. Stay not; begone!”

“I defy all thy entreaties,” cried Paris hotly, “and seize thee here for a felon.”

“Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!” said Romeo, compelled to draw in self-defence.

They fought, and Paris was wounded.

“Oh, I am slain!” he moaned. “If thou be merciful, open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.”

“In faith, I will. Let me see this face,” said Romeo, and he took up the torch to look at the dead man. “Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! What was it my man said when my troubled soul paid no heed to him as we rode hither? I think he told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so? Or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, to think it was so?—Oh, give me thy hand, one writ with me in sour misfortune’s book! I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.”

Taking up the dead body of the gallant youth, Romeo laid it gently inside the tomb. Then all other thoughts faded from his mind, for there, uncovered on the bier, clad in her wedding-robes, radiant in all her beauty, lay the young wife from whom he had only parted a few days before.

“O my love! my wife!” he sighed. “Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.... Ah, dear Juliet! why art thou yet so fair?... I will stay here with thee, and never from this palace of dim night depart again. Oh, here will I set up my everlasting rest, and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh! Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!... Here’s to my love! O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick! Thus with a kiss I die.”

---

At the further end of the churchyard, Friar Laurence, with a lantern, crowbar, and spade, was picking his way through the crowded ranks of graves, when he stumbled across a friend. This was Balthasar, who told him that Romeo had gone to the Capulets’ vault, but from fear of his master, did not dare accompany the Friar there. Dreading some fresh misfortune, Friar Laurence hurried onwards. At the entrance to the vault he was horrified to see fresh stains of blood, and on entering it he found, to his dismay, Romeo lying there beside the bier of Juliet, and Paris newly slain. But there was no time to spare for lament or wonder; Juliet was awakening.

“O comforting Friar, where is my lord?” she asked, opening her sweet eyes, and glancing about a little fearfully at her dreary surroundings. “I remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?”

At this moment a noise was heard outside. Paris’s little page had warned the night-watchmen of Verona, and they were now approaching. Friar Laurence implored Juliet to leave the place at once. A greater power than theirs had thwarted their plans; her husband lay dead beside her, and Paris, too, was slain. The Friar said he would place Juliet in safety among a sisterhood of holy nuns, only let her come at once; he dared stay no longer.

“Go, get thee hence, for I will not go,” replied Juliet firmly; and seeing it was useless to attempt to argue with her, Friar Laurence slipped away.

Left alone, for one brief terrified moment Juliet glanced around her, but when her gaze fell on her dead husband all doubt and hesitation fled for ever.

“What’s here? A cup, closed in my true love’s hand?” she said, bending over him tenderly. “Poison, I see, has been his untimely end. O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me to follow thee? I will kiss thy lips; haply some poison yet hangs on them.” She leant forward and kissed him, and in the same moment caught sight of the dagger in Romeo’s belt. “Thy lips are warm.”

“Lead, boy! Which way?” said the voice of a watchman outside.

“Yea, noise! Then I’ll be brief,” said Juliet, snatching the dagger. “O happy dagger, this is thy sheath; there rest and let me die!” And she fell back dead on Romeo’s body.

---

When the watchmen, followed by the Prince of Verona and the parents of the ill-fated lovers, entered the vault, there was nothing to be done. All was over now—the joy and the sorrow, the hatred and the strife. Revenge was silenced; henceforth the voice of dissension was mute. In the presence of those unseeing witnesses the bitter enemies were reconciled.

In this “palace of dim night,” this dark abode of death, nothing was left now but peace and the abiding memory of undying love.