My uncle's advice replayed over and over in my head: Be both direct and polite. Compliments are your best weapon. The coach arrived all too soon; even a glance at the beautifully kept house made it clear that this was not a family to be messed with. It reminded me of the first time I had seen Silvia's residence, and that had turned out wonderfully, hadn't it? After shoving open the carriage door, I laid feet on the ground gingerly; tiny raindrops landed on my tunic. Only my personal attendant, Horatio, followed.
The path to Capulet manor was slick; so slick, in fact, that I arrived at the entrance with several dirt stains and a throbbing bruise, one that would cause Silvia to gasp with horror. A maid opened the door so promptly that I believe she had been watching me the whole time. She offered to take my coat, which I handed over.
After several awkward minutes in the front parlor, pretending to be fascinated by the sofa upon which I sat (Horatio wasn't a talkative one), a manservant came to escort me to the Lord Capulet's study. Horatio began to follow, but was told that the Lord Capulet had given strict instructions that only I was to meet him.
The lord's study was not a working quarters so much as a room to brag about in conversation. Portraits of each Capulet head of house were displayed proudly in gold frames. The current lord wore an expression so serious and fatherly that it seemed to mock him as he was sitting before me: eyes scanning my body, trying to find some fault in my construction. He gestured to a chair pushed to the side of the room. The wood, in comparison to the chairs at home, was rough and painful to sit on.
"Leave us." With a nod, the manservant departed. "A remarkable feat: only ten minutes past the agreed hour. I pray it was not exhaustive to travel at such an early hour?" His gibe stings: the accursed ten minutes were spent sitting in the front parlor awaiting his call. Silvia's voice guides me: Yes, you are angry, but don't let that show. Be clever in your retaliation. I merely nod. "The hour was not early; preparation was the culprit. I assure you, I meant not to steal time from your later appointments."
I knew all too well that Lord Capulet had no later visitors— over a century ago, his family had been pushed aside when the sovereigns had begun to favor the Montagues. Capulets had lost all esteem when a kinsmen had slain a good friend of the king; monarchs had remained, well, distant from the Capulets ever since. Like Silvia had been to me ever since the name "Juliet" had escaped my uncle's lips. But back to the Capulets— all esteemed families had shunned them ever since, not wanting to become outcasts as well. And the worst part? It was a Montague who had identified the killer.
Our conversation eventually moved to the feud. Capulet vivaciously defended his family: The Montagues, robbing us of our pride, humiliating us in court. We had done nothing to deserve the torment inflicted on us. But he begins to take a peaceful approach: The torment stopped a hundred-years ago; it is my duty to hate the Montagues, but little more than that. I soon grow tired of the lord: he's fickle as the wind, as fickle as Silvia, actually. I try to redirect the conversation. "But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?"
The lord Capulet informs me that his daughter is too young, too innocent, his only pride and joy. I only counter his arguments weakly: better to be unintelligent than separated from my one true love. And so two more years are secured: two more happy years with Silvia.