I recently translated the collected monologues of Charles Cros; the book should be out in the fall. Cros was a poet of the late 19th century, a colleague of Rimbaud and Verlaine, but with a distinctive voice of his own. He also pioneered the comic monologue, writing a series of lively little pieces for the actor Coquelin Cadet. They seem curiously contemporary, presenting a gallery of fools and obsessives who seem to have wandered on stage by accident. Here’s the beginning of one, in which the narrator is obsessed with a catchy tune:

OBSESSION

THE OBSESSIVE: M. Coquelin Cadet

   (He enters, pale and haggard.) Ah! I’m very sick. And yet, only two days ago I was so happy! I went to the theater, to the Délassements. They had an amusing little play! Oh, so amusing! There was a young lady (in the play), and then a young man who wanted to marry the young lady, and then people who tried to prevent the marriage, and then other people who were for the marriage, anyway I don’t remember very well what happens, but they get married in the end. Then everyone is happy, and they sing an air, oh! what a tune!

   Tra la la la, la la, la la la, etc. 

   (He sings the whole air.)

   When I left the theater I was happy; such a pretty little play. It was so cold!… I turn up my collar, I walk fast, la la, my shoes ring out on the pavement, la la, la la. I live one hour from the theater. I reach my door, I ring, bing, bing, bing, bing, bing. (Same air.) The doorman takes three quarters of an hour to open for me. Finally! I climb the stair (I live on the sixth floor), la, la, la, la. I light my candle, la la; I get undressed; I throw my coat on a chair, la la, my pants on another, la la; I jump into bed and go to sleep. 

   (Snoring to the same air.)

   In the morning, I wake up; the weather is superb; I had a ray of sunshine up my nose.

   I leap out of bed, tra, la, la, la, la; I duck my head in the water, glub, glub, glub, glub. (Same air.) I dry off, I knot my tie, la la; I was happy! There’s a knock at the door, I go to open, la, la, la, la. My concierge! Aha, it’s you? You really made me wait at the door last night, la la. What’s this? A letter… Versailles. (Gesture of opening and reading it.) La, la, la la. Ah, my God! My poor aunt… On her deathbed…! My hat! Coat, umbrella! I’m downstairs; I catch a cab: Driver! Saint-Lazare station, five francs for a tip, la, la, la la. I get to the station; I forget my umbrella in the car, car, car, car, car. (Same air.) The ticket window was closing, I got my ticket anyway, there I am in the train, oof, oof, oof (Same air.), the train that’s leaving is the express, press, press, press, press. (Same air.)