2. All Montagues And Thee

Three days after the disgrace of his family, Tybalt summoned all of his pride and knocked at the door of the Montague family home. Though he had always known where it was, he had never set foot inside; even his challenge to Romeo he had sent with his page. The boy attended him even now, but hung back, unwilling to disturb his volatile master.

Tybalt had long dreamed of entering the Montague stronghold, but his fantasies had always involved a bloody charge and a short but undoubtedly heroic fight that would lead to a glorious victory. Ever since his manhood had come upon him, visions of a nubile chambermaid or two had appended themselves onto the image of the victory. But never had he fantasized about cooling his heels at the door like any common supplicant. It seemed ages until a placid servant opened the door and gazed expectantly at him. Tybalt drew himself up as straight as possible, and looked down his nose at the fellow. "I have come to pay a call upon my cousin," he said, and worked his mouth for a few moments before managing to add, "Mistress Juliet Montague."

The servant nodded. "Of course, Signior Tybalt. Come, I will show you to a receiving room, and I will send for the Lady Juliet."

Tybalt followed the servant closely, making a game of almost treading upon the man's heels, but never doing him actual harm. He carefully avoided admiring the frescoed walls, which he had heard were the work of the master Antonio Badile himself. Though he could not ignore the dark elegance of the receiving room into which the servant ushered him, he did wait until the Montague man had withdrawn before running his finger over the surface of a delicate inlaid table. He did have to admit, albeit somewhat grudgingly, that the Montagues had good taste in decoration, enough to keep him entertained until Juliet arrived.

In fact, he became so absorbed in contemplating a portrait of a lady dressed in a gown of the previous century that he failed to notice Juliet immediately. It was only when he heard the delicate cough behind him that he turned to see his cousin standing in the doorway. She wore a simple dress of olive velvet, one that she had worn at her old home, but whose muted color matched the sobriety of her husband's house. The long dark braid that he had loved to pull when they were both children was coiled and pinned on top of her head, with a mauve veil attached to the coil. Juliet looked as serene and foreign as the portrait of the Montague bride that Tybalt had just been admiring. But then she smiled at him, and her eyes were the same as the little girl who had always tagged after him, whining for attention.

"Tybalt, my dearest cousin and friend!" Juliet said, and hurried across the room to embrace him. "It is a joy to see thee here. I had feared thou wast lost to me forever."

"Nay, fair cousin, I shall be at thy command ever and anon."

"I am glad of it." Juliet released him from her embrace, but retained his arm. "Shall I show thee my new house?"

Tybalt took in her sober dress and her matron's coiffure. "Nay, do not trouble thyself. I see all of the signs upon thy person."

Juliet looked puzzled, and glanced down at her skirt, as if expecting to find some spot of dust.

"Juliet Capulet is no more," Tybalt elaborated. "Thou art become Juliet Montague, and the house of Capulet will wither before the name of its ancient foe."

At that, Juliet dropped his arm and gave him a sharp glance. "So thy true purpose emerges," she said, her voice much cooler than before. "I had thought that thou hadst come to wish me well in my marriage and to remake our childhood friendship. It appears that I was mistaken."

"Nay, I --"

"An thou art come to berate me or my Romeo, then thou mayst depart at once. But if thou wouldst maintain a civil tongue in thy head, then thou hast leave to speak." Juliet marched over to a table flanked by two upholstered chairs and sat primly in one, spreading her skirt wide. Tybalt followed her, but did not sit.

"I am not come to berate thee," he said, his manner as civil as he could make it. "I have already been chastened by my Prince and my noble uncle, and I have no more need of scolding. But I would engage thee in conversation of some import."

Juliet gestured toward the other chair, and Tybalt sat down. "For Romeo, I have but one thing to say. If ever he doth displease thee, call upon me, and I shall make short work of him."

"Such call wilt thou never receive," Juliet replied. "Dost thou name this a conversation of import?"

"Nay, but this next I do." Tybalt took a deep breath and willed his voice not to shake. "Why didst thou cast thy name and thy family's pride to the wind? Thou couldst have had the County Paris and become the Princess of Verona in time. Wherefore didst thou defy thy parents and ally thyself with thy enemy?"

Juliet did not flinch at the question, but stared straight back at him, her wide green eyes serene and unblinking. "I wedded Romeo because I love him and am loved by him in turn."

Of all the answers Juliet could have given, Tybalt had not expected that one at all. Love had its place in marriage, of course; Tybalt would never dream of entering into a marriage or allowing Juliet to enter into a marriage where there was no possibility of love. Love certainly contributed to a peaceful home, though Uncle Leonardo and Aunt Isabella had provided ample proof that domestic tranquility did not absolutely depend on it. And old Angelica had staunchly maintained that a child conceived by loving parents would be healthier and more likely to survive than a child conceived by parents who did not love. But the idea that something as important as a marriage could have been contracted purely on the basis of love astonished him.

"Love?" he choked out. "Thou didst defy thy father's wisdom and cast aside thy ancestral name for love?"

"Ay," Juliet said, then leaned closer to enunciate each word. "And I would do it again without doubt or hesitation."

Tybalt's fists clenched of their own accord, and he surged to his feet to pace away the worst part of his sudden fury before he caused an unfortunate scene in the house that he still considered to be his enemy's. "Does the name of Capulet mean so little to thee?" he asked.

Juliet did not answer immediately. After a moment, Tybalt heard the rustling of her skirts, and then she stood beside him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. When he turned to her, his eyes blurred with tears. He quickly blinked them away, but was relieved to see no contempt in her eyes, only the same adoring expression that she had always shown him.

"I beg thy pardon, sweet Tybalt," she said. "It was not my intent to give offense. I know what the name must mean to thee."

"It is thy name by right of birth," he replied. "Canst thou not conceive of thy privilege? Were such fortune mine, I should guard it as the most precious treasure that earth could yield."

A puzzled frown crept across Juliet's brow. "The law hath granted thee all that privilege," she said. "Thou art my father's ward and his heir, as much as his son would have been."

"But I am not his son!" Tybalt cried, twisting away from Juliet. "The law may grant me land and money, but it cannot grant me an honorable name. Heir to Capulet I may be, but I am forever the son of Luca Grasso, a man who counts his worth in coin more than in dignity! He gave me away simply to secure that thy father's fortune would come to him in time."

"To thee. Thou art my father's heir, not Luca Grasso."

"Thou art a silly girl," Tybalt sniffed. "What dost thou think will happen upon thy father's death? I shall inherit a son's portion of the house of Capulet, and then Luca Grasso will appear, solicitous and desiring to be a father once again. It is the fortune he wants, not the child. The man of honor is not my father, and though his fortune will be mine, I shall never have his dignity. That is what thou hast cast aside in thy haste for love."

Juliet pursed her lips and was silent for a while. Tybalt turned away from her and pretended to examine a small, intricately wrought silver fruit bowl. A core of hot anger burned within his breast, mingled with shame at having spoken so frankly to his cousin, who was, after all, still only a child, and could not be expected to appreciate important affairs of men.

For her part, Juliet stepped aside and began to study the portrait of the Montague lady that Tybalt had examined earlier. "I must remember to ask Mother Susanna who she was," she mused, seemingly to herself, but just loud enough for Tybalt to hear every word.

Though Tybalt recoiled inwardly at the affectionate reference to Juliet's new mother-in-law, he put on an air of calm disdain. "That is no great puzzle. Most likely, it is a portrait of an ancestress of the current Signior Montague."

"But who was she before that, I wonder?" Juliet replied. "For, unless it is customary in my husband's family to wed one's own brother, against all the laws of God and men, she was not born a Montague."

"What does it matter? Whatever her family of birth, she lived as a Montague, bore sons with the name of Montague, and died a Montague."

"Then the name of her birth cannot have been of much importance to her."

Tybalt looked up sharply. Juliet's face was still serene and innocent, but her eyes flashed. "I know naught of the joys and sorrows of being one man's son or another," she said, "but afore God, I know what it is to be a daughter! My name is no gift to me; rather, it is a loan from my father, for a term. Fourteen years, perhaps, or sixteen, seventeen, or even twenty. But it is a loan, and what is only borrowed must be returned. The name of Capulet was never mine to own, only to be held for a season, until I must take the name of another man."

"One that thy lord father would have chosen for thee, with care and foresight."

"The County Paris?"

Tybalt nodded. "He is noble and honorable, and will become the Prince of Verona in time. The name of Montague does not touch him."

"And what is in a name?" Juliet shot back. "A woman's name may change, but she is still herself beneath it. Why, then, should it not be the same with a man? And if the name have no such power to charm, then why should it command my loyalties? I wedded Romeo, not his name."

"No!" Another burst of fury surged up in Tybalt's breast, and he stalked towards Juliet, secretly pleased to see her retreat a few steps and seize the back of a chair for support. "That is what a slip of a girl cannot possibly hope to understand. Thou canst not wed Romeo and not his name. His name is part of him. Romeo is Montague, and there is no way to sever the two. All that was thine as a Capulet has derived to thy ancient foe, and thou art a fool to think otherwise."

"And wherefore, pray tell, should I trouble myself?" Juliet snapped. "The name would have vanished upon my marriage regardless of the particular husband, for I have no living brothers. Thou, son of Grasso, hast more claim to its power than ever I did. Wherefore should I not spend what little interest I possess in the name to wed for love and bring peace to Verona?"

"Peace, peace!" Tybalt sneered. "What is peace? Simply to throw our blades to the ground, devoid of honor or glory?"

"The honor and glory that would have derived to thee from the death of Mercutio Rinuccini?"

That brought Tybalt up short. It was true that he had never liked Mercutio, even when they had been boys together at the Latin school. Besides being ugly, skinny, and having poor taste in companions, Mercutio had been too clever by half, always eager to show off for Friar Salvatore. Tybalt had not been sorry in the least when Mercutio had suddenly begun to struggle after Friar Salvatore's death, and he had been positively overjoyed when Signior Rinuccini had pulled Mercutio out of the Latin school for good. Over the years, Mercutio's quick temper had proved a steady source of amusement if Tybalt felt like a fight.

However, as Tybalt had spent many an hour with Friar Lawrence confessing, murder was something far different. His quarrels with Mercutio were, in the end, a thing of boyhood, meant to flare up suddenly and fade away with equal swiftness, returning in time in an endless cycle. But the sickening grate as Tybalt's blade had slid between Mercutio's ribs and the horrifying smear of bright blood on the foible had brought that diversion to a terrible new plane. Tybalt knew that it was by sheer good fortune alone that accident had not become a murder that would have meant his own death as well.

"That was never meant to be," he grumbled, chastened. He turned away from Juliet, who, with all the perversity of a girl, hurried to take his arm.

"Thou hast thy glory and thy honor, dear Tybalt," she said. "Thou hast struck terror deep into the hearts of my husband and his cousin. They do not speak much of it in my presence, but I see it in their eyes."

Tybalt considered Juliet's words. If she spoke truly, then perhaps he could count at least a small victory for himself. He had not considered that a strike at Mercutio could have such an effect on the soft, simpering Montague boys, but he was glad of it. He was especially glad to have terrified Benvolio, whom he had always envied for losing his parents quickly in the long-ago earthquake rather than having to endure the shame of being bartered away as so much coin in trade. "Perhaps," he mused, "if they have proved themselves cowards in the matter of friendship . . ."

"Then thou hast thy victory," Juliet said. "Thou mayst walk the streets of Verona secure in thy own fearlessness, and perhaps we may consign this endless bloodshed to the past."

Friar Lawrence had said much the same thing after Tybalt's secret, shamefully tearful confessions. And, though Tybalt would never dream of telling another soul, the idea did have a certain appeal. At the very least, it meant that he could pursue his own more amorous pleasures without having to surround himself with quite so many bodyguards.

It seemed that Friar Lawrence was right, in the end; everything eventually passed away, including the glory and the name of the house of Capulet. Juliet's point could not be gainsaid. Whether she married Paris or Romeo, the name of Capulet would vanish, and the name of Montague would survive. The thought weighed upon Tybalt's heart, but there was no longer anything he could do about that.

Still, perhaps one last shred of hope remained. "Juliet," he said. She gazed at him, unblinking. "Wilt thou make one promise to me at the last?"

"What promise should I make?"

Tybalt swallowed. "It is simply . . . to remember. Remember that thou wast born a Capulet. Remember the honor of thy native house and of the line that bore thee. Let not thy children grow up in ignorance of who they might have been."

Juliet smiled. "Of course I shall remember," she said. "I shall tell them of how peace came to Verona through the love that created them, and to tell them that, I must tell them of the house of Capulet."

"And so thou wilt remain my gentle cousin." The thought was balm to Tybalt's soul, though he would let none see that. Instead, he kissed Juliet's hand and took his leave, walking out of the house of Montague into the sunshine.