[Matteo Bandello, La sfortunata morte di dui infelicissimi amanti, 1554.]
If the affection which deservedly I cherish for my own native country do not deceive me, few cities, I take it, in this fair Italy of ours can excel Verona in beauty of position, placed as it is on so noble a river as the Adige, whose limpid waters divide the city, and cause it to abound in such merchandise as Germany sends thither. Fair fruitful hills and pleasant valleys environ it, while its beauty is enhanced by many fountains of pure sparkling water, as also by four stately bridges across the river, and by a thousand other notable objects of antiquity which may there be seen. But if I speak now, it is not because I am moved to praise my native nest, which of itself proclaims its own merit and distinction, for I would tell you of the lamentable misfortunes that befell two noble lovers in this city.
At the time of the Signori della Scala there were two families in Verona renowned for their high birth and great wealth. These were the Montecchi and the Capelletti, between whom, for some reason or other, there existed a fierce and bloody feud, and, there being strength on either side, in various frays many were killed, not only of the Montecchi and the Capelletti, but also of their followers and partisans. This served ever to augment their mutual hate.
Bartolomeo Scala, being at that time lord of Verona, was at great pains to pacify both parties; but so deeply rooted was their hatred, that he could never bring them to order. Nevertheless, if he might not establish peace, he at any rate put a stop to the perpetual frays which too often resulted in loss of life; and if they chanced to meet, the younger men always gave way to the elder of their adversaries.
It happened that one winter, soon after Christmas, festivals were held, which maskers attended in large numbers. Antonio Capelletto, the head of his house, gave a very splendid entertainment, to which he invited many noblemen and gentlefolk. Most of the young bloods of the city were there, among them being Romeo Montecchio, a youth of twenty or thereabouts, and the handsomest and most courteous in all Verona. Wearing a mask, he went with several of his companions to Capelletto's house at nightfall. just then Romeo was deeply enamoured of a gentlewoman, whose slave he had been for nearly two years, and, though he constantly followed her to churches and other places, she had never yet vouchsafed him so much as a single glance. Often had he written letters to her and sent messages; but so hard of heart was she that she would not smile graciously upon the love-sick youth, and this grieved him so much that he resolved to leave Verona, and stay away for one or two years, so that by travelling here and there in Italy he might abate the vehemence of his passion. Then again, overcome by his fervent love, he blamed himself for harbouring so foolish a thought, and it appeared utterly impossible to quit Verona. At times he would say to himself: “It can no longer be true that I love her, for in a thousand ways I have had clear proofs that she does not value my devotion. Why should I persist in following her everywhere, since courting her is useless? It behoves me never to go to a church nor any other place that she frequents, so that, not seeing her, this fire within me that is fomented by her beautiful eyes may gradually die out.”
Alas! all such thoughts proved vain, for it seemed that the more coy she showed herself, giving him less reason to hope, the more his love for her increased, and on no day that- he did not see her could he be happy or at ease. As his devotion became ever deeper and more constant, some of his friends feared that he would waste away, and they often admonished him and besought him to relinquish such an enterprise. But for their warnings and healthful counsel he cared as little as did the lady for his love.
Romeo had a comrade who was deeply concerned about his hopeless love, and greatly regretted that in pursuit of a woman he should lose golden youth and the very flower of his years. He would often expostulate with Romeo upon the subject; and one day he said: “Loving you, Romeo, as I do like a brother, it sorely vexes me to see you wasting thus like snow before the sun. As all that you do and all that you spend brings you neither honour nor profit, for you cannot induce her to love you, and all your efforts only make her more froward, why should you longer strive in vain? It is -quite clear to you that for you and for your service she cares not a jot. It may be that she has some lover who is so dear and pleasant to her that she would not leave him for an emperor. You are young—perhaps the comeliest youth in all Verona; moreover, you are courteous, amiable, brave, and well versed in letters—to youth, a rare adornment. You are your father's only son, whose great riches are well known to all. Has he ever shown himself close-fisted towards you, or scolded you for spending and giving just as you liked? He is your man of business, toiling to amass wealth for you, and letting you do just what pleases you. Rouse yourself, then, and see the error of your ways. Strip off the veil that blinds your eyes and will not let you see the road in which you should walk. Resolve to turn your thoughts elsewhere, and to make some woman your mistress who shall be worthy of you. Entertainments and masked balls are about to be given in the city; to all of these you must go. If by chance you should meet her whom you have so long courted in vain, give her not a glance, but look in the mirror of that love which you bore for her, and doubtless you will find recompense for all the ills that you have suffered. Disdain most just and reasonable will then be aroused within you, which shall presently daunt your ill-regulated passion, and shall set you free."
With many similar arguments Romeo's trusty comrade sought to turn him from so hapless an enterprise. Romeo listened patiently, and determined to profit by such wise counsel. He went to all the festivals, and whenever he met the froward damsel he never gave her a look, but turned all his attention to others, examining them critically with a view to choosing the one he liked best, just as if he had come to market to buy a doublet or a horse.
Thus, as we have said, Romeo went to the festival given by the Capelletti, and after wearing his mask for a while he took it off, and sat down in a corner whence he could leisurely survey all who were in the hall, where numerous torches made the light as bright as that of day. Every one looked at Romeo, especially the ladies, and all wondered that he should show himself thus freely in the house. But, as in addition to great good looks he had most charming manners, everybody took a liking to him, and his enemies gave no heed to him, as they might have done had he been older. Thus Romeo figured there as a judge of the beauty of all those ladies who came to the ball, praising this or that one as the fancy took him, preferring to criticise rather than to dance.
Suddenly he noticed a maiden of extraordinary beauty, whom he did not know. She pleased him infinitely, and he deemed her the loveliest and most graceful damsel that he had ever seen. The more he gazed at her, the more beautiful and charming did she seem to become, so he began to throw her amorous glances; in fact, he could not take his eyes off her. A strange joy filled him as he looked, and he inwardly resolved to use every endeavour to win her favour and her love. Thus supplanted by this new affection, his love for the other lady waned, and its fires were extinguished. Having set foot in love's delicious maze, Romeo, while not daring to inquire who the damsel might be, was content to feast his eyes upon her beauty, and as thus captivated by her charm he waxed eloquent in praise of her every gesture, insensibly he drank in draughts of the luscious poison of love. As I have said, he sat in a corner of the ball-room, and watched all the dancers as they passed. The name of the maiden whose beauty thus charmed him was Giulietta, and she was the daughter of the host. To her Romeo was unknown, but he seemed to her the handsomest youth she had ever met, and she took a strange pleasure in looking at him, though she did this in shy, furtive fashion, while in her heart she felt a rapture indefinably delicious and immeasurably sweet. She was most anxious that Romeo should dance with her, so that she might the better see him and hear him speak, believing that in his voice there would be as great a charm as in his eyes. But Romeo showed no desire to dance, and sat there in his corner alone, intently gazing at the lovely damsel, while looking at no one else, and by this interchange of glances and gentle sighs they sought to acquaint each other with their mutual love.
The ball was now about to end with a torch-dance, or, as some style it, a cap-dance. Romeo was invited to join in this by a lady, and after dancing with her he bowed, and, giving the torch to another lady, went close to Giulietta and took her by the hand, an act that gave to each inestimable pleasure. Giulietta thus stood between Romeo and another gentleman named Marcuccio, a man of the court, and most agreeable, whose witty, pleasant ways made him a general favourite. He had always got some good story to set the company laughing, while his merriment brought with it harm to none. At all times, in winter or in summer, he had hands as cold and icy as an Alpine glacier, and, though he might warm these for a good while at the fire, they always remained stone cold. With Romeo on her left, Giulietta had Marcuccio on her right, and when she felt the lover take her hand, being possibly desirous to hear him speak, she turned gaily to him and said with trembling voice, “Blessings attend your coming to my side!” So saying, she pressed his hand lovingly. Romeo, being quick of wit, gently returned the pressure, as he answered, “Lady mine, what blessing is this that you bestow upon me?” Then, with a sweet smile, she said, “Do not marvel, Oh, gentle youth, that I bless your coming here, as Messer Marcuccio has been freezing me for a good while past with his ice-cold hand; but now, all thanks to you, your delicate hand has warmed me.” To this Romeo instantly answered, “Lady, whatever service I can do for you will be to me supremely dear, as to serve you is all that I desire in this world; and I shall count myself happy if you will but deign to command me as you would command the least of your servants. Let me tell you, moreover, that if my hand warms you, the fire of your fair eyes burns all my being, and if you give me no help to endure such heat, it will not be long before you see me entirely consumed and changed to ashes.” He had hardly said these words when the torch-dance came to an end, and Giulietta, full of passion, pressed his hand, as with a sigh she said falteringly, “Alas! what can I say but that I am much more yours than mine!”
As all the guests were now departing, Romeo waited to see which way the damsel went; but he soon discovered that she was a daughter of the house, and of this one of his friends assured him who had made inquiry of many of the ladies. The news disconcerted him not a little, as he held it to be a most perilous and difficult matter to attain the end of his amorous desire. But the wound was already open, and had become deeply impregnated with love's subtle poison.
Giulietta, on the other hand, desired to know who the youth was to whose comeliness she had fallen a victim; so she called her nurse aside into a chamber, and stood at a window overlooking the street, which was clearly lighted up by all the torches. Then she began to ask the nurse who this one was, wearing such and such a doublet, or that one with a sword, or the other; and she also asked who the handsome youth might be who carried a mask in his hand. The good old woman, who recognised nearly all of them, told Giulietta the names of each; and she also pointed out Romeo, for him she knew well. At the name Montecchio the damsel was as one stunned, and she despaired of ever getting Romeo for her husband, because of the deadly feud between the two families; nevertheless, outwardly she showed nothing of her discontent. That night she slept little, being full of many thoughts; yet refrain from loving Romeo she could not and would not, so passionately was she enamoured. His exceeding beauty encouraged her; and then again the difficulty and peril of the thing caused her to despair, so that she became a prey to conflicting thoughts, as she said to herself: “Whither shall I let these ungovernable desires of mine transport me? How can I tell, fool that I am, if Romeo loves me? Perhaps the roguish lad only said such words to deceive me, and, having obtained a shameful advantage, would laugh to see me turned into his trull, taking thus his revenge for the feud that grows ever fiercer between his kinsfolk and my own! Yet he is more generous of soul than to betray her who loves, ay, who adores him! If the countenance be the manifest index of the mind, in a form so fair no ruthless heart of iron could dwell; nay, I am prone to think that from a youth so handsome and gentle one could only expect love, courtesy, and kindness. Let us then suppose that, as I would fain believe, he loves me, and would have me for his lawful wife; may I not reasonably think that to this my father will never consent? Yet who knows that such a match might not engender between the two families perpetual concord and a lasting peace? I have often heard that marriages have made peace not only between private citizens and gentlemen, but frequently between the greatest of princes and kings, cruel wars being followed by true peace and friendship, to the great contentment of all. Perhaps in this way I may bring about a tranquil peace between the two houses.”
Being therefore possessed of this thought, whenever she saw Romeo pass along the street she always smiled gaily at him, and this greatly rejoiced his heart. No less than hers, his thoughts were at continual strife, now hopeful of mood, and anon despairing. Nevertheless he continued to pass in front of the maiden's house, by day as by night, though it was at his great peril, and Giulietta's kind glances only increased his ardour, and drew him to that particular part of the city. The windows of Giulietta's chamber overlooked a narrow passage, a farm-shed being opposite; and when Romeo passed along the main road, on reaching the top of the passage he often saw the girl at her window, who always smiled and seemed delighted to see him. He often went there at night and stopped in this passage, as it was unfrequented, and also because, if he stood opposite Giulietta’s window, he could sometimes hear her speak. He being there one night, Giulietta, either because she heard him or for some other reason, opened her casement, when he withdrew to the shed, but not before she recognised him, for with her splendour the moon had made all the roadway bright. Being alone in her chamber, she softly called to him and said: “What are you doing here at this hour alone? If they should catch you here, alas, what would become of you! Do you not know how cruel is the enmity that exists between your house and ours, and how many thereby have met their death? Of a truth you will be ruthlessly slain, and thus to you mortal hurt, and to me dishonour, will ensue.”
“Lady mine,” replied Romeo, “it is the love that I cherish for you which brings me here at this hour, nor do I doubt that if your folk found me they would try to kill me, albeit, so far as my feeble powers would let me, I should endeavour to do my duty; and though overwhelmed by numbers, I would make every effort not to die alone. Indeed, if in this amorous enterprise I needs must perish, what death more fortunate could befall me than to die near you? Never, methinks, may it happen that I shall be the cause of putting the least stain upon your honour, for with my own blood I shall ever strive to keep it, as now it is, bright and fair. But if you held my life as dear as I hold yours, you would remove all these barriers and make me the happiest man alive.” “Then what would you have me do?” said Giulietta. And Romeo answered, “I would have you love me as I love you, and let me come into your chamber, so that with greater ease and less danger I may show you the magnitude of my love, and all the bitter pain that perpetually I suffer for your sake.”
Vexed somewhat at hearing this, Giulietta in confusion answered: “Romeo, you know your love, and I know mine, and I know moreover that I love you as deeply as any one may love another—perhaps more than befits my honour. But let me say that if you are minded to enjoy me without the holy bond of matrimony you are very greatly mistaken, and we may nowise agree. Knowing, as I do, that if you visit this neighbourhood too often you may easily meet with certain evil folk, when I should never be happy again, I conclude that, if you would be mine, as I would be yours for ever, you must make me your lawful wife. If you wed me I shall always be ready to come to whatever place you please. But if some other fancy fills your head, begone about your business and leave me in peace.”
At these words, Romeo, who wished for nothing better, gaily replied that this was his one and only desire, and that whenever it pleased her he would espouse her in whatever way she should appoint. “This is well,” added Giulietta, “but, that our marriage be celebrated in orderly fashion, I would have it solemnised in the presence of the reverend Friar Lorenzo da Reggio, my spiritual father.” To this they agreed, and it was decided that on the following day Romeo should speak to the friar about the matter, as he was on intimate terms with him.
Friar Lorenzo belonged to the Minor Brotherhood, a master in theology, a great philosopher, and a skilled expert in many things, including chemistry and magic. As the worthy friar desired to keep up his good reputation with the people and also enjoy such pleasures as he was minded to take, he sought to do his business as cautiously as possible. To provide against every emergency, he always endeavoured to get the support of some nobleman of high repute. Among other friends whose favour he enjoyed in Verona, he had Romeo's father, a gentleman of great credit whom every one highly esteemed. He firmly believed the friar to be a most holy man, and Romeo was also much attached to him, being beloved by Fra Lorenzo in retur n as a prudent and courageous youth. Not only
with the Montecchi but also with the Capelletti he was on terms of close friendship, and he confessed most of the nobility of Verona, the men as well as the women.
Romeo, having decided to do this, took leave of Giulietta and returned home. When morning came, he went to the convent of San Francesco and told the friar of his fortunate love, and what he and Giulietta had detennined to do. Hearing this, Fra Lorenzo promised to do all that he wished, as he could deny him nothing, and also because he felt sure that he could make peace between the Capelletti and the Montecchi and win greater favour with Signor Bartolomeo Scala, who was most desirous that the two houses should be reconciled, so that all strife in the city might cease. The two lovers therefore waited for an opportunity of confessing themselves in order to carry out their plan.
It was the time of Lent, and to make matters safer Giulietta resolved to confide in her old nurse, Profiting by an opportunity, she told the good woman the who slept with her in the same chamber.
whole story of her love. However much the beldame chid her and bade her desist from such an enterprise, this had no effect, so that at length she acquiesced, and Giulietta prevailed upon her to carry a letter to Romeo. When the lover read what was written therein, he felt as if he were the happiest man in the world, for in the letter Giulietta asked him to come and speak with her at her chamber window at the fifth hour of the night, and bring a rope-ladder with him. Romeo had a trusty serving-man, whom he had often trusted with matters of importance, and had ever found him prompt and loyal. Telling him of his design, he charged him to procure the rope-ladder, and when everything was ready set out at the time fixed with Pietro, for so the servant was named. He found Giulietta waiting for him, who on recognising him let down the cord which she had prepared, and they drew up the ladder, which, with the nurse's help, she fixed firmly to the iron grating, and then waited for her lover to come up. He boldly climbed up, while Pietro withdrew to the shed opposite. On getting up to the window, Romeo talked to Giulietta through the iron grating, the bars of which were so close together that a hand was hardly able to pass through them. After loving greetings, Giulietta said to him: “Signor mine, dearer to me than the light of my eyes, I sent for you to tell you that I have arranged with my mother to go to confession next Friday, in the sermon-hour. Inform Fra Lorenzo, so that he may have all things ready.” Romeo replied that he had already told the friar, who was disposed to do all that they wished. When they had talked a while further of their loves, Romeo let himself down by the ladder and returned home with Pietro.
Giulietta became straightway very glad of heart, and every hour before she could wed her Romeo was to her as a thousand years. Romeo, for his part, felt just as gay and full of spirits, as he talked with his servant of it all. When Friday came, Madame Giovanna, Giulietta’s mother, took her daughter and serving-women, and went to the San Francesco convent; and on entering the church she asked for Fra Lorenzo. The friar had already taken Romeo into his cell where he heard confessions, and had locked him in. Then he went to Madame Giovanna, who said to him: “Father, I came to confess myself betimes, and I have also brought Giulietta with me, for I know that all the day you will be busy hearing the many confessions of your spiritual sons and daughters.” Giving them his blessing, the friar passed into the convent and entered the confessional where Romeo was, while Giulietta followed as the first to present herself for confession. When she had entered, and closed the door, she made a sign to the friar that she was within. He then raised the wicket, and after the usual greetings said: “My daughter, Romeo tells me that you have consented to take him as your husband, and that he is minded to make you his wife. Are you both still so disposed ?” The lovers answered that this was all that they desired, whereupon the friar, after saying certain things in praise of holy matrimony, pronounced those words which the Church has ordained to be spoken at marriages, and Romeo then gave his dear Giulietta the ring, much to their mutual delight. They arranged to meet that night, and after kissing each other through the opening of the wicket, Romeo cautiously quitted the cell and the convent, and gaily went about his business. The friar closed the grating so that it might seem as if nothing had been removed, and then heard the glad maiden's confession, as well as that of her mother and the serving-women.
When night had come, at the hour fixed, Romeo went with Pietro to a certain garden. Helped by the latter he climbed the wall, and let himself down into the garden, where he found his bride waiting for him with the nurse. On seeing Giulietta, he went to meet her with outstretched arms. Giulietta did the same, and, winding her arms about his neck, she remained for a while speechless—overcome, as it were, by such supreme delight, while her ardent lover was filled with a like rapture, and it seemed to him that never before had he tasted pleasure such as this. In mutual kisses then they took infinite, unspeakable delight, and, withdrawing to a corner of the garden where there was a bench, they then and there consummated the marriage.
After much delicious dalliance, Romeo and his lovely bride made arrangements for a future meeting, resolving to discover what Messer Antonio would say with regard to the union and the making of peace. Then, after kissing his dear wife a thousand times, Romeo left the garden, saying joyfully to himself, “What man is there alive more happy than myself? Who is there that shall equal me in love? Or who ever possessed so fair and winsome a damsel as mine?” Nor did Giulietta deem herself less fortunate, since to her it seemed impossible that any youth could be found who in beauty, courtesy, and gracious bearing might equal her Romeo; and she anxiously waited until things might be so arranged that she could freely enjoy him without fear. Thus, on some days they met, while on others they forbore.
Meantime Fra Lorenzo tried all he could to effect a peace between the Montecchi and the Capelletti, and had brought matters to such a likely pass that he hoped to make the secret alliance a source of satisfaction to both parties. But at Easter-time it happened that several men of the Capelletti faction fell in with others of the Montecchi near the Borsari Gate facing Castel Vecchio, and, being armed, they fiercely attacked them. Among the Capelletti was Tebaldo, Giulietta's first cousin, a stalwart youth who urged his comrades to give the Montecchi a sound thrashing and respect no one. The scuffle grew fiercer, when each side was reinforced with men and arms; so furious indeed became the fighters, that, recking nothing, they dealt each other grievous wounds.
Suddenly Romeo appeared upon the scene, who besides his henchmen had certain young fellows with him, who accompanied him in a jaunt about the city. Seeing his kinsmen fighting with the Capelletti he was greatly troubled, for he knew of the friar's scheme for peace, and felt doubly desirous that no dispute should arise. Therefore, to calm the disturbance, he called out to his comrades and servants, being heard by many others in the street: “Brothers, let us part these fellows, and see to it that, at all costs, the fray goes no further, but compel them to lay down their arms.” Then he endeavoured to separate the combatants, while his friends did likewise, and tried their best by words and deeds to stop the fight. It was a vain attempt, however, the fury of either side having now reached such a pitch that blows fell thick and fast.
Two or three men had already fallen when Tebaldo, coming sideways at Romeo, dealt him a lusty stroke in the flank; but as he wore a corselet of mail, he was not wounded, as the blade could not pierce it. Then, turning towards Tebaldo, he said in friendly fashion: “Tebaldo, you are in great error if you think that I have come to pick a quarrel with you or with your people. I happened to be here by chance, and have tried to get my men away, being desirous that we should live like peaceful citizens. Thereforel beg you to do the same with your fellows, so that no further scandal ensue, for there has been bloodshed enough already.”
Nearly all present heard these words spoken, but Tebaldo, either not understanding or not choosing to understand them, rushed wildly at Romeo to strike him on the head, crying out, “Traitor! you are a dead man!” Romeo wore gauntlets of mail, and, wrapping his cloak round his left arm, held this up to protect his head, and, turning the point of his sword towards his adversary, he ran him right through the throat, piercing it again and again, so that Tebaldo instantly fell, dead. Then there was a great outcry, and as the officers of the court now came up the combatants escaped, some this way, and others that. Grieved beyond measure that he had killed Tebaldo, Romeo, with several of his folk, went to San Francesco, and hid himself in Fra Lorenzo's chamber. The good friar, at the news of young Tebaldo's death, was in despair, for he feared that now there would be no means of removing the hatred between the two families. The Capelletti in a body went to Signor Bartolomeo, the Governor, to lodge a complaint, while the Montecchi sought to defend Romeo, as there were many who could testify to his forbearance until Tebaldo attacked him. Thus either party argued hotly before Signor Bartolomeo. As it was proved that the Capelletti had been the assailants, while to Romeo's pacifying words several trustworthy citizens bore witness, the Governor made all of them lay down their arms, and banished Romeo from Verona.
In the house of the Capelletti there was great mourning for the death of their Tebaldo, while Giulietta’s tears fell without ceasing, not for the loss of her cousin, but because all hope had
vanished of the alliance, and she grieved greatly and bemoaned her fate, as she could not conceive how the thing would end. Learning through Fra Lorenzo where Romeo was, she wrote him a most sorrowful letter and sent it to the friar by her old nurse. She knew that Romeo had been banished and that he must instantly quit Verona, so she affectionately besought him to let her go with him. Romeo wrote back cheering words and bade her be patient, as in time he would make everything right. He had not yet determined to what place he would go, but he would stay as near Verona as possible, and before leaving he would make every effort to meet her once more, and speak with her in whatever place was most convenient to herself.
As the least dangerous spot, she chose the garden in which she had passed her weddingnight; and accordingly at the time fixed Romeo, armed, came out of the convent, and, with his trusty servant Pietro, went to the garden, where Giulietta received him with floods of tears. For a while they were silent, unable to speak a word, drinking, as they kissed, each other's tears, and mourning bitterly for this sudden separation and all the adversities of fate. As the time for parting drew near, Giulietta fervently besought her husband to take her with him, saying, “Dear my lord, I will cut off these locks of mine and don a page's dress, and wherever you please to go, there will I always come too, and lovingly do your behests. What more faithful servant could you have than I? Oh, my own dear husband, grant me this boon, and let your fortune be my fortune also, that what befalls you may befall me likewise!” With tender words Romeo sought to comfort her as best he might, assuring her that it was his firm belief that ere long his sentence of banishment would be revoked, as of this the Prince had already given his father some hope. Moreover, if he took her with him, it should not be in the garb of a page, but as his bride and his wife, whom he would see honourably attended as befitted her rank. His term of banishment, so he said, would not exceed a year, and if
meanwhile no friendly truce were established between the factions, the Lord of Verona would see to it that at all hazards, and whether they wished it or not, they did become reconciled. Nay, if the matter were protracted overmuch, he would go over to the other side, since he could not live long without his Giulietta. Then he told her to send him news of herself by letter, and said much else to comfort her, but Giulietta was inconsolable, and could only weep. Now, as the lights of dawn showed faint in the east, the sorrowing lovers kissed and embraced each other as before with many tears and sighs, then said farewell.
Romeo returned to the convent, while Giulietta went back to her chamber; and two or three days later, having laid his plans, he left Verona disguised as a merchant, having trusty companions about him, with whom he travelled in safety to Mantua. Here he took a house, for his father kept him supplied with money, and provided in every way for his honourable maintenance.
All day, and every day, Giulietta wept and sighed, scarcely eating or sleeping, her nights being as unrestful as her days. Noticing her daughter's grief, Giulietta’s mother often questioned her as to its cause, telling her that it was time to eease such sorrowing, and that she had mourned overmuch for her cousin's death. Giulietta said that she did not know what ailed her, and whenever she could escape from the company she gave vent to her grief with tears, so that she grew thin and sad, and all unlike the lovely Giulietta that once she was. Romeo kept her comforted by frequent letters, always giving her hope that soon they would be together again. He urgently besought her to be of good cheer and to let merriment dispel her melancholy, as all things were working together for good. Vain, however, was such counsel, as, without Romeo, she could get no cure for all her grief.
The mother thought that the girl's chagrin came from a desire to have a husband, as some of her companions had recently been married. Possessed by this idea, she told her lord of it, and said, “Husband, our daughter Giulietta leads a most miserable life, for she does nothing but weep and sigh, and, whenever she can, she shuns the society of every one. I have often asked her the reason of this sorrowing, and, indeed, have closely watched her on all sides to try and discover it, but I have never succeeded. She always has the same answer, to wit, that she does not know what ails her, while all the servants shrug their shoulders and say they cannot tell. Some grievous passion of a truth torments her, and it is evident that she is wasting away as wax before the fire. Of the thousand reasons that I have imagined, one alone remains in my mind, and it is this—I greatly suspect that her grief comes from the fact that, last Carnival-time, some of her girl companions were married, while there is no talk of finding a husband for her. This next feast of Saint Euphemia she will be eighteen, so, husband mine, I thought I would say a word to you about it, as it seems to me that the time has come for you to find her a worthy and honourable husband, and not let her remain longer unwed, for she's hardly the sort of goods to keep by us at home.”
Messer Antonio thought his wife's speech apt enough, and he replied: “Since you could make nothing, wife, of our daughter's melancholy, and as you think she ought to have a husband, I will do my best to get her one that shall in all respects be worthy of our house. Meanwhile, do you try and find out if she be in love, and let her say who the husband is that she prefers.” Madame Giovanna declared that she would do all in her power, and make fresh inquiries of her daughter, and of others about the house. However, she could learn nothing.
Just at this time Messer Antonio's choice happened to fall upon the Count Paris di Lodrone, a very handsome and very rich young man, about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. There seemed good hope of successfully arranging the match, and Messer Antonio told his wife of this. Thinking such an alliance most desirable, she in turn told Giulietta, who at the news became as one beside herself with grief. Perceiving this, Madame Giovanna was much annoyed, not knowing the cause of her daughter's discontent.
After much arguing, she said: “Well, daughter mine, as I take it, you wish for no husband;” to which Giulietta answered, “No, mother, I do not desire to wed; and, if you love me or care for me, never talk to me about a husband.” “What do you want, then,” rejoined her mother, “if you will not have a husband? Will you be a nun? Tell me frankly what you wish.” Giulietta said that she did not want to be a nun; all that she desired was to die. At this answer the mother was filled with amazement and displeasure, and she knew neither what to say nor what to do. Those of the household were equally surprised, and could only affirm that ever since her cousin's death Giulietta had been exceedingly sorrowful, weeping incessantly, and never showing herself at the windows. Having heard all from his wife, Messer Antonio sent for his daughter, and after some expostulation said: “My daughter, as you are now at a marriageable age, I have found a noble, rich, and handsome husband for you in the Count di Lodrone, therefore do as I bid you and get you ready to accept him, for it is seldom that matches as honourable as this are made.” Hereupon, with more courage than befits a girl, Giulietta frankly answered that she did not wish to be married. The father was greatly incensed, and in his choler came near to striking her.
However, he only sharply scolded her with many harsh words, finally telling her that, whether she liked it or not, she must make up her mind in three or four days to go with her mother and other kinsfolk to Villafranca, where Count Paris and his companions intended to visit her. Moreover she must show no further opposition to this plan, if she did not wish him to break her head, and make of her the sorriest daughter that had ever been born. Giulietta’s discomfiture may well be imagined; in sooth she was as if struck by some fiery thunderbolt. Upon recovering herself, she let Romeo know everything, by means of Fra Lorenzo. Romeo wrote back bidding her be of good courage, as in a short while he would come and take her away with him to Mantua. So she was forced to go to Villafranca, where her father had a very beautiful estate. She went just as gaily as convicts go to crucifixion or the gallows. Count Paris, who was there, saw her in church at mass, and, albeit haggard, pale, and sad of mien, she pleased him; so he came to Verona, where the marriage was concluded with Messer Antonio. Giulietta also returned to Verona, when her father told her that the marriage contract had been signed, and exhorted her to be cheerful. Struggling to show a brave front, she kept back the tears that rose in torrents to her eyes, as answer she made none. The wedding, so she learnt, was fixed for the middle of next September; so not knowing where to turn for help, she decided to go herself and see Fra Lorenzo, and take counsel with him as to how she might escape from these nuptials.
The festival of the glorious Assumption of the ever-blessed Virgin, Mother of our Redeemer, now drew near, when Giulietta, profiting by the chance, went to her mother and said: “I neither know nor can I imagine the source of this deep melancholy that thus oppresses me, yet ever since Tebaldo's death I have never been happy, and it would seem that I am getting worse, since nothing serves to cheer me. Therefore, at this blessed Feast of the Assumption, I would fain attend confession, as perhaps in this way I shall gain some comfort in my tribulation. Sweet my mother, what say you ? Do you think that I should do so? If there be some other road that in your opinion I ought to take, I pray you show it to me, since in my own mind nothing seems clear to me.”
Madame Giovanna, being a good soul and very religious, was glad to hear of her daughter's intention, and highly commended her for it. Accordingly they went together to San Francesco, to see Fra Lorenzo. When he had entered the confessional, Giulietta, going in at the opposite side, presented herself before him and said: “Holy Father, no one better than you yourself knows what has transpired between my husband and myself, so there is no need for me to repeat it here. You will also remember to have read the letter that I forwarded through you to Romeo, in which I told him that my father had made me the affianced bride of Count Paris di Lodrone. Romeo wrote back that he would come and save me, but God only knows when that will be. Now as matters stand, they have decided to have the wedding next September, and as the time draws near, I see no way to escape from this Lodrone, who should rather be called ladrone (thief) and assassin, since he would steal the property of another. Father, I have therefore come to you for counsel and help. These words that Romeo writes, ‘I will come and set things right,’ are not enough to get me out of the trap. I am Romeo's wife, with whom I have consummated marriage, and I can never be another's; nay, even if I could, I would not, for I mean to be his, and his eternally. Your help, then, and your counsel are what I need. Listen to what I thought of doing. I want you, father, to procure me a boy's dress with doublet and hose, so that, thus clad, I may leave Verona late one evening or early one morning. No one will recognise me, and I can go straight away to Mantua, to my Romeo's house.”
When the friar heard this imprudent plan, he was little pleased thereat, and said: “My daughter, this scheme of yours cannot be carried out, for you would run too great a risk. A damsel so tenderly nurtured as yourself could not bear the fatigue of such a journey, for you are not used to travel on foot, nor do you know the way, so that you would wander about hither and thither. As soon as your father discovered your absence from home, he would send spies to all the gates of the city and along all -the main roads of the country round about; and without a doubt they would soon find you. When you had been brought home, your father would want to know the reason for your escaping thus in the dress of a man. How you would bear their threats and ill-usage I know not, and in your luckless endeavour to reach Romeo you would lose all hope of ever seeing him again.”
At the friar's sagacious words, Giulietta grew calmer, and she replied: “Since my plan does not seem to you a good one, Father, and as I have full belief in you, pray give me your advice, and show me how to cut the hateful knot that binds me, so that possibly with less peril I may rejoin my Romeo, for I cannot live without him. And if you can help me in no other way, prevent me at least from becoming another's, if Romeo's I may not be. He told me of your fame as a distiller of herbs and other things, and that you prepare a water which, without causing any pain, can kill a man in a couple of hours. Give me some of this; enough to free me from the hands of that ladrone, seeing that to restore me to Romeo is out of your power. Loving me as I know he loves me, he will be content that I should die rather than fall alive into the hands of others. Moreover you will save me and my house from grievous shame, and if there be no other way to rescue me from this tempestuous sea, on which I drift as some wrecked and rudderless bark, I swear it, that some night with a keen-edged dagger, in a frenzy, I will slit open the veins of my throat, being resolved to die rather than remain untrue to Romeo.”
The friar was a great experimentalist, who in his day had travelled in various countries, delighting to gather new knowledge. He was specially well acquainted with the virtues residing in herbs and minerals, being one of the most famous distillers of the time. Among other sleep-giving preparations, he made a paste, which afterwards he reduced to a very fine powder of truly marvellous efficacy. For, if dissolved in a little water, whoever drank it fell asleep in less than half an hour, and the draught had such a calming efl.ect upon the vital forces that there was no physician, however famous or expert, who would not declare the drinker of it to be dead—a delicious death, lasting sometimes forty hours and sometimes more, according to the bodily temperament of those who took the draught. When the powder had done its work, the man or the woman awoke just as from some long, calm, restful sleep; and it caused them no harm whatever.
Now when the friar heard the disconsolate damsel's resolve, from sheer pity he was like to weep as he replied: “See now, my daughter, you must not talk of dying, for of a surety if once you die you will not return until the judgment Day, when all the dead shall be raised together. Iwould have you think of living as long as it shall please God, for He gave you life and He preserves it, and, when it seems to Him good, He takes it back again. Thus put away from you such melancholy thoughts. You are young, and must endeavour to live and enjoy your Romeo. We will find some remedy for it all, never fear. In this magnificent city, as you see, I am held by all in high repute, yet if folk should discover that I knew of your marriage, it would bring me infinite harm and shame. And if I gave you poison, what then? I have none, but if I had, I would not give you any, because it would be to sin grievously against God, and also because I should utterly lose my credit. Nevertheless, O my daughter, I will gladly do all I can for you, so that you may remain Romeo's bride, and not become the wife of this Lodrone. Nor shall you die; but it behoves us to act so that no one shall know of the matter. You, for your part, must be resolute and brave, and determine to do as I bid you, though this shall not cause you the least harm. Listen, then, to what I mean you to do.”
Then the friar showed the damsel his sleepingpowder and explained to her its virtues, and that he had often tried it, but had never found it fail in its effect.
“My daughter,” said he, “this powder is so precious that it will give you a harmless sleep, and all the time you thus quietly rest, if Galen, Hippocrates, Messue, Avicenna, and all the most famous physicians past and present were to see you and feel your pulse, with one voice they would all declare you to be dead. And when the powder has done its work, you will awake as healthy and as fresh as when at morning you leave your couch. At the first signs of dawn you must drink the potion, when you will gradually fall asleep, and when the hour for rising comes your kinsfolk will endeavour to wake you, but in vain. Your pulse will have ceased to beat, and you will be as cold as ice. When summoned, doctors and relatives will one and all pronounce you dead, and at evening time you will be buried in the vault of the Capelletti. There, at your ease, you will rest for a night and a day, and the next night Romeo and I will come to take you hence (for meanwhile I shall inform him of our plan by special messenger), and he will secretly convey you to Mantua and keep you there in hiding, until this blessed peace be concluded between your house and his. If you cannot adopt this course, I do not see how I can help you in any other way. But, as I have said, see to it that you keep the matter secret and to yourself, or you will spoil things for both of us.”
Giulietta, who to find Romeo would have gone into a fiery furnace, to say nothing of a sepulchre, implicitly believed all that the friar said, and without another thought consented to his proposal, saying, “Father, I will do all that you tell me, and I place myself in your hands. Never fear that I shall say aught of the thing to any one, for I will keep it a profound secret.”
Then the friar hurried back to his room, and brought the damsel a small spoonful of the powder, which he wrapped up in a piece of paper. Giulietta put this in her wallet, and thanked Fra Lorenzo many times, who could scarcely believe that a girl should have such courage and assurance as to let herself be shut up in a tomb with the dead; and he said to her: “Say, now, my daughter, shall you not be afraid of your cousin Tebaldo, who was but lately killed, and who lies in the vault where you will be placed? By this time he must stink horribly.” “My father,” replied the intrepid damsel, “fear nothing on that score, for if by suffering the grievous torments of hell I thought I should find Romeo, for me the eternal fire would have no terrors.” “So be it, then,” answered the friar, “in the name of our Lord God.”
Giulietta then joyfully returned to her mother, and as they went home together she said: “Mother dearest, of a truth Fra Lorenzo is a most holy man. With his sweet and pious counsel he has given me such comfort that he has almost dispelled the deep melancholy that oppressed me, and so devoutly did he discourse to me upon the subject of my ailment, that nothing better nor more apt can be imagined.” Madame Giovanna noticed that her daughter was more than usually gay, and, hearing this, her joy knew no bounds as she replied, “God bless you, my dearest daughter! Right glad am I to think that you have begun to be of good cheer, and for this we are greatly beholden to our spiritual father. We must be good to him and help him with our alms, for the monastery is poor, and each day he says a prayer to God for us. Bear him often in mind, and send him some goodly alms.”
Madame Giovanna really believed that Giulietta by this apparent gaiety had got rid of her melancholy, so she told this to her husband, who shared her satisfaction thereat, and they both ceased to suspect that she was love-sick for some one, believing that her grief had arisen from her cousin's death, or from some other strange cause. Indeed she seemed over-young to marry, and, if they could have done so with honour, they would willingly have kept her yet for two or three years before getting her a husband. But the contract with the Count was already concluded, and this could not be undone without scandal. A day for the marriage was accordingly fixed, and rich dresses and jewels were got ready for Giulietta to wear. She continued to seem light-hearted and gay, laughing and joking with all, while every hour seemed to her as a thousand years, before that one came for her to drink the potion.
On the evening which preceded the Sunday fixed for her wedding day, the damsel, saying nothing to any one, placed a goblet filled with water at the head of her bed. This was not noticed by her nurse. That night she hardly slept at all, being full of thoughts, and when the dawn drew near, at which time she was to drink the potion, she pictured Tebaldo to herself as she had seen him, with all the blood streaming from a gash in his throat. She thought how she would have to lie beside him, perhaps upon him, and that in the vault there were many mouldering bodies and bare bones. The fear of it sent a cold shiver through her frame, her every hair stood on end, and for sheer terror she trembled like a leaf in the gale. An icy sweat overspread her limbs, and it seemed to her on a sudden as if she were being torn into pieces by the sheeted dead in that tomb. Then, her fears giving place to courage, she said to herself: “Alas! what is this that I am about to do? Where am I going to let them put me? How shall I bear the noisome stench of Tebaldo's rotting corpse, when at home the least evil smell is unendurable to me? Who knows if some serpent or a thousand other hideous reptiles be not in the tomb—vermin abhorred and loathed by me? If courage fails me to look at them, how shall I bear to have them about me and to feel them touch me? Have I not often heard them say what fearful things happen at night, not only in tombs but also in churches and graveyards?”
This grim fancy brought to her imagination a thousand others more grisly still, and she half determined not to take the powder—in fact, she very nearly scattered it about the floor, being distraught by many strange and conflicting thoughts, some prompting her to take it, and others to reflect upon the hideous perils that would surround her if she did. However, at the last, as the dawn peered forth from her orient balcony, being spurred thereto by her fervent and vivid love for Romeo, which only grew greater in all this trouble, she boldly drank off the potion at a draught; and, lying down, she soon fell asleep.
The old nurse, being in bed with her, had noticed that the girl scarcely slept all night, but she never saw her drink the potion, and, rising, went about her household duties as usual. When the time came for Giulietta to wake, the old crone came back to the room, crying, “Get up, get up! it is time to rise!” and she threw open the windows. Seeing that Giulietta never moved nor made the least sign of rising, she shook her, saying, “Get up, slug-a-bed, get up!” But the good old woman's words fell upon deaf ears.
So she began to shake Giulietta as hard as she could, pulling her by the nose and pinching her, but all her efforts were in vain. The powder had so frozen and fettered her vital spirits that not the loudest, most appalling thunderclaps in the world could have roused her with their tremendous clamour. The old nurse, being horrified to find that the girl was as senseless as a corpse, believed she must be dead, and, weeping bitterly, she ran to find Madame Giovanna, to whom, half hindered by sobs, she cried breathlessly: “Madam, your daughter is dead.” The mother rushed, weeping, to the room, and when she found her daughter in this state, needless to say, she was almost overwhelmed with grief. Up to the stars rose her grievous lamentations; they would have touched stones to pity, or softened savage tigers when most wrathful at the loss of their whelps.
The women's cries were now heard all over the house, and every one ran to the bedchamber. Giulietta’s father came with the rest, and when he found his girl cold as ice, without any visible sign of life, he was fain to die of grief. The news spread quickly, and soon the whole city heard of it. Friends and kinsfolk flocked straightway to the house, and the more they came the greater grew the general lamentation. The most famous physicians of the city were instantly summoned, who applied all their most efficacious remedies, but without effect. Then, hearing what life the girl had led for several days, and that during this time she had done nothing but weep and sigh, they all with one opinion declared that she had died suffocated by intense grief. This only served to redouble the universal sorrowing, as all Verona bewailed so cruel and so unforeseen a death; but more than they all the mother mourned, refusing to take any comfort whatever. Three times when embracing her daughter she fainted, and herself seemed like a corpse, so that grief followed grief, and sorrow was added unto sorrow. All the women about her strove as best they might to console her, but she had given reins to her grief in such a way, and had let herself be so transported thereby, that in despair she understood nothing of all that was said to her. All that she did was to weep and to sigh, screaming and tearing her hair like one demented. Messer Antonio was as greatly distressed as she, though he gave less vent to his grief in tears.
That morning Fra Lorenzo wrote a long letter to Romeo, informing him of the potion scheme and of what had occurred; telling him also that on the following night he would go and bring Giulietta out of the tomb and take her back to his chamber. Romeo must therefore endeavour to come disguised to Verona, and he would wait for him until midnight on the following day, and then they would adopt such measures as might seem to them best. The letter being written and sealed, Fra Lorenzo gave it to a trustworthy friar, with strict injunctions to set out for Mantua that very day and find Romeo Montecchio. To him he was to deliver the letter, but to no other person, whoever he might be.
The friar started off and reached Mantua early in the day, dismounting at the Franciscan convent. Having put up his horse, he asked the Father Superior to let him have a companion to take him about the city and help him to do his business. But he discovered that shortly before one of the friars of this convent had died, and there was just a suspicion that his death was due to the plague. The health officers unanimously declared him a victim to this disease, and they were the more certain of this because in his groin was found a tumour much bigger than an egg—proof positive that he had died of this pestilent malady. So it chanced that just as the Veronese friar was asking for a companion, the health officers arrived and ordered the Father Superior under grave penalties to let no one go forth from the convent. The friar protested that he had only just arrived from Verona, and had not associated with any one in the convent. But his protests were vain, and he was perforce obliged to remain there with the other friars, so that he never gave that blessed letter to Romeo, nor sent him any message, which brought about the direst evil and scandal, as you shall hear anon.
Meanwhile in Verona they prepared solemn funeral obsequies for the damsel whom all believed to be dead, and they decided that the burial should take place late that evening. On hearing of Giulietta’s death, Pietro, Romeo's servant, was filled with consternation, and he decided to go to Mantua, but after the funeral; so that he might tell his master that he had actually seen her dead. He resolved to start from Verona and ride all night, reaching Mantua when the gates were opened. Accordingly, at late evening, amid the grief of the whole city, Giulietta was borne on a bier towards San Francesco, the pomp of her train being swelled by all the clerical and civic dignitaries of Verona. Distress at the sad event had so dazed Pietro, who knew how passionately his master loved the girl, that he never thought of speaking to Fra Lorenzo, as he usually did. Had he seen the friar, he would have heard about the sleepingdraught, and, by telling Romeo, would have averted all the ills that ensued. Being well assured that it was Giulietta whom they carried on the bier, he mounted his horse and rode at a good rate to Villafranca, where he stopped a while for rest and refreshment. Then, starting again two hours before daybreak, he reached Mantua at sunrise, and went to his master's house.
Let us now go back to Verona. When the damsel had been brought into the church and over her bier the customary solemn service for the dead had been chanted, about the midmost hour of the night she was laid in the vault. This was of marble and very spacious, being situated in the graveyard outside the church, one side of it touching the wall, with an enclosed space adjoining, where, when another corpse was laid in the vault, the bones of those previously interred were flung. When the vault was opened, Fra Lorenzo dragged Tebaldo's body to one side of it, and after it had been swept and made clean he had the damsel gently placed therein, with a little pillow at her head. Then he closed the tomb.
On reaching the house, Pietro found his master in bed, and for grievous sobs and tears could say not a word when presenting himself before him. This greatly astonished Romeo, who, thinking of ills other than those which had actually occurred, said: “How now, Pietro? What is amiss? What news do you bring me from Verona? How goes it with my father and the rest of our family ? Speak, nor keep me longer in suspense. What can it be that grieves you thus? Quick, tell me!”
Then Pietro, giving vent to his emotion, in broken accents told him of Giulietta's death, and how he himself had seen her borne to the sepulchre, her death, as they said, being due to grief. The dread news nearly drove Romeo out of his mind, and, leaping from his bed in a frenzy, he cried: “Ah! traitorous Romeo, perfidious, disloyal, and of all men most ungrateful! Not grief it is that has slain your lady-love, for of grief one dies not, but it is you, cruel man, you that have been her executioner; you have been her assassin; you have done her to death! She herself wrote to you that she would die rather than become another's bride, and besought you to take her away at all hazards from her father's house. But you, ungrateful one, laggard in love, and wretched mongrel that you are, you gave her your word that you would go and do everything, and bade her be of good cheer, while from day to day you put it off, never resolving to do her will. Now you have chosen to stay with your hands at your girdle; and Giulietta is dead. Dead she is; and you are alive! Oh! traitor, how often did you write it to her, and with your own lips tell her that you could not live without her! But you are living at this moment. Where, think you, is she? There in twilight beyond the grave she wanders, waiting for you to follow, as to herself she exclaims: ‘Ah, what a liar, what a false lover and faithless husband is this! for at the news of my death he yet can bear to remain alive!’ Forgive me, oh, forgive me, my own dearest wife, for I confess my very grievous sin. As, however, my immeasurable grief may not for all its poignancy deprive me of life, myself I will do its work, and slay myself with mine own hand!”
Then he grasped the sword hanging near the bed's head, and, wrenching it from its scabbard, set the point of the blade at his heart. But Pietro was quick enough to prevent him from wounding himself, and disarmed him in a trice, snatching the sword from his hand, as, like a faithful servant, he respectfully chid his master for such madness, bidding him take comfort and live, as the dead girl was beyond all human help. The dreadful news had so stupefied Romeo, that, as it were, he became like stone or marble, while never a tear fell from his eyes. Looking at him, one might have thought it was a statue, not a man. But ere long tears came in torrents, and then he resembled a fountain where water welled in abundance. And the words that, thus weeping, he uttered, might have moved pity in the hearts of barbarians, however hard or adamantine these might be. When the first bitterness of his grief was spent, Romeo, swayed by passion, began to give way to evil and desperate thoughts, and, since his darling Giulietta was dead, he determined nowise to remain alive. But of this dire intent he said not a word, hiding what was in his mind, so that by no servant nor another he might be hindered from carrying out his scheme. To Pietro, who was with him in the room, he gave injunctions to say nothing to any one of Giulietta’s death, but bade him get two fresh horses saddled, as he was going back to Verona.
“I want you,” said he, “to go on first, as fast as you can, saying nothing to any one, and when you reach Verona do not tell my father that I am coming, but try and get picks and other iron tools necessary for opening the vault in which my wife is buried. For I shall arrive at Verona late to-night, and will go straight to your cottage at the back of our orchard. About the third or fourth hour of the night we will go to the grave yard, for I would fain look once more upon my hapless wife as she lies there, dead. Then, all unrecognised, I will quit Verona betimes, you following me a little way after; and we will both return hither.”
Accordingly, soon after this Pietro started, and Romeo wrote a letter to his father, asking pardon for marrying without his permission, setting forth in full the story of his love and of his marriage. He also tenderly besought him to have a solemn service for the dead said at Giulietta’s grave, as if it were for his daughter-in-law, and make this service a perpetual one by endowing it with the revenues which he (Romeo) possessed, as certain property had come to him from an aunt who, dying, had made him her heir. For Pietro also Romeo made such provision that he could live in ease without depending upon others for support. These two things he most urgently requested of his father, declaring it to be his last wish, and, as his aunt had died a few days before, he begged his father to give the first-fruits of her property to the poor. Sealing this letter, he put it in his bosom, and, taking a phial full of deadly poison, he dressed himself like a German and mounted his horse, telling the folk of his house that next day he would soon return.
So he set out for Verona, travelling at great speed, and got there at the hour of the Ave Maria. He at once went to look for Pietro, who was at home, and had done all that he had been told to do. About the fourth hour of the night they both started for San Francesco, taking all necessary tools with them, and on reaching Giulietta's tomb they adroitly opened it and propped up the lid. Romeo had told Pietro to bring a dark lantern with him, which helped them not a little in their work. Entering the tomb, Romeo saw his darling wife lying there, to all appearance cold and dead. At the sight he swooned, and sank down at her side overcome with grief. Then, recovering himself, he tenderly kissed and embraced her, bathing her face with scalding tears, as sobs choked his utterance. But after a long spell of weeping he found his voice, and spoke words that must have touched the hardest of hard hearts to pity.
As he had resolved to be quit of life, he took the phial containing the poison, and putting it to his lips drained it at one draught.
Then he called to Pietro, who kept watch in a corner of the graveyard, and bade him approach. So Pietro, climbing up, leaned over the mouth of the tomb, when Romeo thus addressed him:
“Listen, Pietro; my wife lies here, and you partly know how much I loved and still do love her. I felt that it was as impossible for me to live without her as for a body to exist without a soul, and so I brought poison with me—snake-water, which, as you know, can kill a man in less than an hour. This of my own free will I have drunk, so as to die here by the side of her whom living I so dearly loved; and though in life. I was not allowed to be with her, I shall at least lie beside her in the grave. See, here is the phial, which, if you recollect, we got of the Spoletine in Mantua—the fellow that had those live asps and snakes. Of His pity and infinite goodness may God pardon me, for not to offend against Him have I slain myself, but because without my dear wife I could not live. And if you see these eyes of mine full of tears, not for my lost youth do I weep, but because I grieve for her death—she deserved to live a happier, more tranquil life. Give this letter to my father; I have written to him that which I wish done after my death; also about my burial here, and concerning my servants at Mantua. For you, who have served me so faithfully, I have made such provision that henceforth you will not need to become the servant of another; and I am sure that my father will carry out all my wishes to the letter. Now, get you hence, for death, I feel, is near; the poison overcomes me, and every limb grows numb. So, do you close the lid of the tomb, and leave me to die by my dear one's side.” At these words Pietro felt as if, for very grief, his heart would break. All his remonstrances were vain, for there was no remedy against the poison, which now had gained hold of all parts of Romeo's body. Taking Giulietta in his arms, the lover kissed her unceasingly, and disposed himself to die, while again telling Pietro to shut down the lid.
Just then Giulietta woke, as the effect of the powder had passed off. Feeling herself kissed, she thought it was the friar, who in a moment of carnal impulse was embracing her as he bore her back to his chamber. So she said, “Alas! Fra Lorenzo, is this how you prove the trust that Romeo placed in you? Back, I say!” Then, as she struggled to free herself from his grasp, her eyes opened, and she found that he who embraced her was Romeo. Although he wore a German dress, she knew him well, and exclaimed: “Oh! my dear heart, is it you? Where is Fra Lorenzo? Why do you not bring me out of this tomb? Let us go away, for God's sake!”
At the sight of her eyes and the sound of her voice, Romeo knew of a certainty that Giulietta was not dead but verily alive, and he felt at once tremendous gladness and measureless, unspeakable grief. Straining her to his bosom, he cried, “Oh life of my life, and dearest heart of mine, what man has ever felt a joy like this which now possesses me? For I firmly believed you to be dead, but behold! I clasp you alive and safe in my arms! Yet what grief may match my grief? What torturing pain can vie with that which fills my heart, as I feel myself reach the end of all my dolorous days, and as life slips from me now, when most I need it? For at the most I cannot live more than half-an-hour! What mortal ever felt at one and the same moment such rapturous joy and such infinite grief? Though, dearest consort, I rejoice unspeakably that you are come back to life, incomparable sorrow covers me as I think that all too soon I may no longer see you, nor hear your voice, nor stay near you to enjoy your sweet company. But the gladness at your return to life far exceeds the sorrow at my own approaching death, and I pray the Lord God to give you those years of my hapless youth which now He takes away from me, letting you live long and have a far happier fate than mine, whose life, as I feel, now touches its close.”
Then Giulietta replied: “What is this, love, that you say? Do you come from Mantua to comfort me with such news? What is it that ails you?” Then Romeo told her how he had drunk the poison, and she exclaimed: “Alas! and woe is me! What awful thing is this you tell me? Fra Lorenzo never wrote to you of the plan which he and I had made? He promised me that he would inform you of it all by letter!” And in her anguish the despairing damsel wept and shrieked, being well-nigh beside herself, as she told Romeo all that had befallen, and all that she and the friar had arranged.
As thus she grieved, Romeo spied Tebaldo's corpse, and, turning to it, said: “Wherever now you be, Tebaldo, know this, that I never sought your harm. I joined the fray as a peace-maker, and to exhort you to get your men to withdraw, making my folk also lay down their arms. Yet, full of rage and ancient hatred, you cared nothing for my words, but with dire intent attacked me. Forced thereto, I lost patience, never ceding an inch, but, standing on my defence, as ill-luck would have it, I slew you. Now, for the harm I did your body, I crave your forgiveness, the more so as I was to have become your kinsman, by marrying this your cousin. If vengeance is what you desired, behold, you have it now. What greater vengeance would you have than to know that he who killed you has now poisoned himself in your presence, and dies here by his own hand, being buried with you in your tomb? Though in life we fought, in death we shall rest at peace in the self-same grave.”
At these dolorous speeches Pietro, listening, became like a statue hewn out of marble. He knew not if he heard aright, or if he dreamed. Then Giulietta said to Romeo: “Since it has not pleased God that we should live together, may it please Him at least that I be buried with you in the tomb, for be sure that, come what may, I will never go hence without you.” Romeo again embraced her, and, comforting her, besought her to live, that thus he might die happy in the belief that she would remain alive. Many things did he say to her, until, as strength and sight gradually failed him, he grew so weak that he sank down on the ground, and with his eyes turned piteously towards his sorrowing wife exclaimed, “Alas! dear heart! I die.”
Now, for some reason or another, Fra Lorenzo did not wish to bear Giulietta to his chamber on the night of her burial, but next night, seeing that Romeo did not come, he went to the tomb with a trusty friar of his order, bringing tools wherewith to open it. He got there just as Romeo sank down in his death-agony. Seeing the tomb open, and recognising Pietro, he said: “Ho, there! where is Romeo?” Giulietta heard him, and cried: “May God forgive you for not sending the letter to Romeo!” “I did send it,” replied the friar; “Fra Anselmo took it: you know him. Why do you speak thus?” “Come into this place and you shall see,” answered Giulietta, weeping bitterly.
The friar entered, where Romeo lay half dead, and he said: “Romeo, my son, what is it? what ails you?” Then, with a languid look, Romeo recognised him, and bade him take care of Giulietta, since he was now past all living help or counsel; and, repenting him of all his sins, he craved forgiveness of him as of God. So saying, he feebly beat his breast, and then his eyes closed, and he lay there, dead.
In excess of grief Giulietta fell senseless upon her husband’s body, and remained for some while in a deep swoon. The friar and Pietro sought to revive her, and when she regained consciousness she gave vent to her tears as she kissed the corpse, and exclaimed: “Oh fairest home of all my thoughts and of my pleasures! my one and only darling lord, from being sweet how are you now become bitter! You have ended your course while yet in the flower of your lovely and pleasant youth, caring nothing for a life that all others held so dear. You wished to die at a time when others most long to live, reaching that end to which sooner or later all must come. Oh, my lord, you came to die in the arms of her whom most you loved, and who loved you with a matchless love, for, thinking her dead and buried, you of your own free will were for burying yourself with her. Never did you deem that these her tears would fall for you; never did you think to pass over to the other world and not find her there. But soon, love, soon will I come to you, and stay with you for evermore!”
Distressed at her anguish, the friar and Pietro did all they could to comfort her, but in vain; and Fra Lorenzo said at last: “My daughter, what is done cannot be undone. If mourning could bring back Romeo from the grave, one and all we would dissolve ourselves in tears, that so we might succour him; but for this thing no remedy exists. Take heart; be comforted, and hold on to life; if you desire not to return to your home, I will find shelter for you in a nunnery, where, in the service of God, you can pray for the soul of your Romeo.” However, she would on no account listen to him; but, being resolved to die, she checked within her all her vital forces, and, embracing Romeo once more, straightway expired.
As the friars and Pietro were busied with the dead girl, believing that she had swooned, the sergeants of the watch came along, and, seeing a light in the tomb, they all hurried thither, to seize Pietro and his companions. On being told the sad story, they left the two friars strongly guarded, and brought Pietro before Signor Bartolomeo, the Governor, and told him under what circumstances they had arrested him. Signor Bartolomeo caused the tale of the hapless lovers to be minutely narrated to him, and, as dawn had now come, he rose and went out to view the bodies.
The report of the tragedy soon spread throughout all Verona, so that young and old flocked forthwith to the vault. Pietro and the friars were set at liberty, and the burial of the two lovers took place with great pomp, amid the great grief of the whole city. The Governor desired that they should be buried in the same grave, and this caused a peace to be made between the Montecchi and Capelletti, though it did not last very long.
