Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

Douglas mimicked her. She ignored him.

Carolyn went to their mother demanding that she make Ruth quit, because the performance was “too utterly sickening for words.” But Mrs. Bridge, pleased that Ruth finally had decided to take part in some school activity, refused to interfere.

Ruth sometimes passed through the kitchen wearing one of her Juliet expressions and went out the back door and toured the yard while Harriet, vastly entertained, smothered her face in her hands.

Mr. Bridge kept silent. If Ruth wanted to try out for the play, all right, or if she did not, all right. He agreed with Harriet that she looked ridiculous walking back and forth in the yard reciting Shakespeare, and probably the neighbors were talking; however, it was none of their business, and besides, it was normal for a girl of Ruth’s age to behave melodramatically. He doubted she would get the part. He had not read the play since he was in school, he had not much cared for it then and had not looked at it again, but he recalled a certain simplicity underlying the florid romanticism of Juliet which was not in the least like Ruth. Still, he wanted her to win the role. Often he listened and watched while she was practicing.

Suddenly one night, as though she knew how he felt, she asked if he would read the part of Romeo, and without hesitation he agreed. Carolyn groaned, Mrs. Bridge began applauding, and Douglas, who had been reading Model Airplane News, promptly fell out of his chair and sprawled on the carpet clutching at his heart.

After a lengthy conference between the principals as to which speeches were to be read and which omitted, they took their places, facing each other in front of the fireplace, Harriet was invited in from the kitchen, and Mrs. Bridge snapped off the overhead light.

Mr. Bridge adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. With Four Tragedies opened at page forty-two he began to read, running his index finger along the lines: “He jests at scars that never felt a wound. What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid are far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady. O, it is my love.”

“Aye me!” Ruth cried, stepping forward.

“She speaks,” Mr. Bridge said. “O, speak again, bright angel. Now,” he continued in the same tone, “am I to read the remainder of this passage or not?”

“No,” Ruth said. “That’s another place where Mr. Billis decided to cut. It’s supposed to be marked. Let me see.”

He handed the book to her. They consulted again. The reading resumed.

“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father! And refuse thy name, or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love! I’ll no longer be a Capulet!”

“Shall I hear more?” Mr. Bridge inquired. “Or shall I speak at this?” He cupped one hand behind his ear.

Ruth moaned and swayed. “O ’tis but thy name that is my enemy! O, be some other name!”

“I take thee at thy word.”

She stepped away from him. She tossed her hair and sighed. “My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of thy tongue’s uttering! Yet I know the sound! Art thou not Romeo? A Montague? How earnest thou hither? And wherefore? The orchard walls are hard to climb!”

Mr. Bridge frowned at the next lines. “With love’s light wings did I over-perch these walls.”

Douglas made a strangling noise; Mrs. Bridge reached down and tapped him on the shoulder.

“By whose direction found’st thou out this place?”

“By love, that first did prompt me to inquire. He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes.”

“Dost thou love me? O, gentle Romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.”

“Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops.”

“O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her cycled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

“According to my copy, that word is ‘circled’ rather than ‘cycled.’ ”

“Go on!” cried Ruth. “Oh, go on! Go on!”

“All right. Let me see, now,” Mr. Bridge said, hunting for his place. “Ah, here we are. After ‘likewise variable’ Romeo speaks again: What shall I swear by?”

“Do not swear at all! Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry! And I’ll believe thee.”

“If my heart’s dear love—”

“Well, do not swear. Good night. Good night! I hear some noise within.” She leaned toward the fireplace as though listening, then straightened up with an agonized expression and said, “Stay but a little while. I will come again.”

“Ruth, that was awfully nice,” Mrs. Bridge said.

Ruth said desperately, “Mother, it’s not over!” and brushing the hair out of her eyes she pretended to be staring down from the balcony. “Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed! If that thy bent of love be honorable, thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, by one that I’ll procure for thee — I mean, procure to come to thee, where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, and all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay, and follow thee my lord throughout the world. Romeo!”

“My dear?”

“At what o’clock tomorrow shall I send to thee?”

“At the hour of nine.”

“I will not fail! Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow!”

“Sleep dwell upon thy eyes, peace in thy breast,” Mr. Bridge recited, and closed the book. “Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.”

In the lamplight Ruth was gazing up at him, but he saw that she did not recognize him. Her eyes were luminous, her lips carried a sensual smile. She hardly seemed to breathe. He was alarmed, and wondered who she thought he was. He had listened to the alien words she spoke and he had responded to them, yet never believed their meaning; now she was possessed, in his image, by the soul of a man who lived four centuries ago.

Ruth asked to borrow two hundred and fifty dollars. She would not say why she wanted the money. He refused to consider giving it to her without first knowing why she wanted it. At last she said one of her girl friends was flying to Tijuana and needed company. He said he would not let her have the money. Then he inquired, jokingly, why her friend wished to go to Tijuana, and Ruth answered that her friend was going to have an abortion. Before he knew what he was about to do he jumped up from the behind the desk and slapped her across the mouth; then he sat down again as though nothing had happened, and Ruth walked out of the study. He noticed with astonishment that the hand which had slapped her was dancing around on the desk as if it was attached to a string. He seized it with his other hand and bowed his head. He could not believe he had struck her. His fingers burned at the memory. When she was a baby he had held her in his arms while she was falling asleep. There were nights when nothing more than the knowledge of her existence had been enough to waken him so that he had gotten out of bed and gone to the crib to watch over her.

Shortly before ten o’clock on Harriet’s night off the telephone rang. Moments later Mrs. Bridge entered the living room with a worried expression. “For you,” she said. “Somebody by the name of Lieutenant Adessi.”

Mr. Bridge abruptly lowered the newspaper. Adessi was on the narcotics squad.

“I believe that was the name,” she said, clasping her hands. “Don’t you know him?”