When the ball was over, Romeo’s friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, looked
for him to return with them, but Romeo was nowhere to be found.
Unable to leave the neighbourhood of the lady who had so suddenly
taken possession of his heart, Romeo had scaled the wall of Capulet’s
orchard. As he drew near the house, a window above opened, and Juliet
herself stepped out on to a balcony. Romeo was hidden among the
shadows of the trees, but the silver rays of a summer moon shone full
on Juliet, and lighted up her sweet young face and her ball-dress of
shimmering white satin.
Like Romeo, Juliet was sad at heart, for all her thoughts were running
on the gallant young stranger, and it grieved her to remember that
he was the son of her father’s enemy. Believing herself to be alone,
Juliet spoke her meditations aloud, and in the silence of the night
they were clearly heard by the unseen listener below.
“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” she sighed. “Deny thy
father, and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, only swear to love
me, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” said Romeo to himself,
enraptured at hearing such words.
“It is only thy name that is my enemy,” continued Juliet. “What’s
‘Montague’? It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other
part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? That
which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.... Romeo,
doff thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee, take all
myself!”
“I take thee at thy word!” cried Romeo, unable to keep silence any
longer. “Call me but love, and I will be new baptized; henceforth I
never will be Romeo!”
Juliet was greatly startled to find that her rash words had been
overheard, but she soon recognised the voice to be that of Romeo. She
warned him of the peril he ran if he should be discovered, but Romeo
cared little for the swords of her kinsmen, provided that he won the
love of the lady. It was too late now to deny what she had so frankly
confessed, and the darkness of the night hid Juliet’s blushes. She
therefore took courage, and spoke out candidly, saying that if Romeo
really loved her, let him pronounce it faithfully, and though he might
think she was too easily won, yet she would prove more true than many
who had more cunning in feigning coldness.
Romeo was all fire and eagerness, and was beginning to swear his
unswerving constancy when Juliet checked him. Her heart was still
troubled, and, though she rejoiced to find that Romeo loved her, she
could scarcely rejoice in the contract they had made; it seemed too
rash, too unadvised, too sudden, to last. But if Romeo’s purpose still
held, and he wished to marry her, Juliet bade him send word the next
day by a trusty messenger, where and at what time the ceremony should
be performed; and she would lay all her fortune at his feet, and
follow him, her husband, throughout the world.
In this sudden emergency Romeo knew to whom to apply. There was a
good old man, called Friar Laurence, a friend of both the families,
who was much grieved at the bitter dissension between them, and had
many times tried to induce them to become reconciled. Friar Laurence
had often chided Romeo for his extravagant doating on Rosaline, and
his unrestrained grief because she would not listen to him. The good
man was somewhat astonished at this sudden turn of events; he foresaw
that one of Romeo’s passionate, excitable nature was never likely to
be happy; the hot-headed young man was always in extremes, either in
a state of rapture or in the depths of despair. He would listen to no
counsel, and never paused to reflect. But when Friar Laurence on this
occasion understood what was wanted of him, he did not refuse his aid,
for he thought this alliance might prove so happy that it would turn
the rancour of the two households into peace and love. So word was
sent to Juliet, and, with the connivance of her old nurse, who was
fully in the confidence of the two young lovers, Juliet stole away the
next morning to Friar Laurence’s cell, and was there secretly married
to Romeo.
* * * * *
On this same morning of the marriage it happened that Romeo’s friends,
Mercutio and Benvolio, were walking through Verona. It was a very hot
day, and Benvolio presently suggested they should go home, saying that
the Capulets were abroad, and that if they met, they would certainly
not escape a brawl, for these hot days fevered the blood, and made men
quarrelsome.
Mercutio laughed at Benvolio’s caution, and accused him of being as
hot-tempered a man as any in Italy.
“Nay, if there were two such we should have none shortly, for one
would kill the other,” he said jeeringly. “Thou! Why, thou wilt
quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard
than thou hast; thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts,
having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. Thy head is
as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat. Thou hast quarrelled
with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy
dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a
tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, and with another for
tying his new shoes with old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from
quarrelling!”
“If I were as ready to quarrel as thou art,” retorted Benvolio, “any
man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.”
It will easily be seen that these gentlemen were not in the most
amiable frame of mind, and it was unfortunate that at that moment
a party of the Capulets should come up, among them being the
fiery-tempered nephew of Lady Capulet. The incident of the night
before still rankled in Tybalt’s mind, and any friend of Romeo’s was
fit subject on which to wreak his spite. But Mercutio was not a man to
brook insult, and he returned Tybalt’s insolence with interest.
“Gentlemen, good-day; a word with one of you,” said Tybalt, advancing.
“Only one word with one of us?” said Mercutio in a mocking voice.
“Couple it with something: make it a word and a blow.”
“You shall find me apt enough at that, sir, if you give me occasion,”
said Tybalt, glaring at him.
“Could you not take some occasion without giving?” sneered Mercutio.
“Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo----”
“Consort!” echoed Mercutio. “What, do you make us minstrels? If you
make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my
fiddlestick; here’s that which shall make you dance!” And he laid his
hand threateningly on his sword.
“We talk here in the public haunt of men,” interposed Benvolio, for
their wrangling had begun to attract the attention of two or three
inquisitive passers-by. “Either withdraw to some private place, and
talk over your grievances calmly, or else depart; here all eyes gaze
on us.”
“Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze,” said Mercutio
coolly. “I will not budge for any man’s pleasure, I!”
“Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man,” said Tybalt, for he
saw Romeo approaching.
“But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wears your livery!” said Mercutio.
Straight from his marriage with Juliet, his heart full of joy, and
his spirit breathing peace to all mankind, came Romeo. Even the
insult with which Tybalt greeted him did not at such a moment rouse
his anger. Tybalt was Juliet’s kinsman; in his overflowing love for
Juliet, Romeo could not quarrel with one who might be dear to her.
“Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford no better term than this--thou
art a villain!” said Tybalt.
“Tybalt,” returned Romeo mildly, “the reason I have for loving you
prevents the rage which should follow such a greeting. I am no
villain. Therefore, farewell. I see you do not know me.”
“Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries you have done me. Therefore
turn and draw.”
“I do protest, I never injured you, but love you better than you
can guess, till you shall know the reason of my love. And so, good
Capulet--which name I speak as dearly as my own--be satisfied.”
Mercutio had listened in amazement to Romeo’s gentle responses to
Tybalt’s insults, but at this he could contain himself no further.
“O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” he cried in wrath, and drew
his sword. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?”
“What would you have with me?”
“Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Will you pluck
out your sword? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears before it be
out.”
“I am for you,” said Tybalt, drawing.
“Gentle Mercutio, put your rapier up,” entreated Romeo.
“Come, sir, begin,” was Mercutio’s only answer.
“Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons,” cried Romeo imploringly.
“Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the
Prince has expressly forbidden fighting in the streets of Verona.
Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!”
In his eagerness to stay the combatants, Romeo tried to strike up
their weapons, and Tybalt, seizing his advantage, stabbed Mercutio
under Romeo’s arm. Then, seeing him reel back into Benvolio’s arms,
Tybalt fled with his followers.
“I am hurt,” said Mercutio. “A plague on both your houses! I am done
for.... Is he gone, and hath nothing?”
“What, are you hurt?” said Benvolio.
“Ay, ay, a scratch--a scratch,” said Mercutio, with an attempt at his
old light manner. “Marry, it’s enough. Where is my page? Go, villain,
fetch a surgeon.”
“Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much,” said Romeo tenderly.
“No, it’s not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,” said
Mercutio, in his usual jesting style, though he could only gasp out
the words with difficulty; “but it’s enough; it will serve. Ask for
me to-morrow, and you shall find me a _grave_ man. I am peppered, I
warrant, for this world.... A plague on both your houses!... Why the
devil did you come between us? I was hurt under your arm.”
“I thought all for the best,” said poor Romeo.
“Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint,” gasped
Mercutio.... “A plague on both your houses! ... they have made worm’s
meat of me ... your houses....”
Benvolio supported Mercutio away, but returned in a few minutes
with the mournful tidings that the brave and gallant spirit had
taken flight. Mercutio, the brilliant wit, the loyal friend, the
light-hearted comrade, had fallen a victim to the dissension between
the houses of Montague and Capulet. Jealous of his friend’s honour, as
of his own, he had risked all in its defence, and he faced death, as
he had done life, with undaunted bearing and a smile on his lips.
Benvolio had scarcely told the news when back came Tybalt, and,
furious at the loss of his friend, Romeo hurled aside all thoughts
of leniency, and straightway sprang at his murderer. The fight was
brief, and Tybalt fell. Romeo was hastily hurried off by Benvolio,
for the whole town was now in an uproar, and he knew that, if taken,
Romeo would probably be doomed to death. Dazed by all the calamities
which had suddenly fallen on him, Romeo let himself be persuaded, and
departed almost in a dream.
The Prince of Verona now arrived, also Capulet and Montague, and
crowds of other citizens. In reply to the Prince’s inquiries, Benvolio
gave an account of what had happened, telling the story in the most
favourable light he could for the absent Romeo, whose fault, indeed,
it had no wise been. He told how Tybalt had provoked him, and how
Romeo had tried to keep the peace, reminding the quarrelsome nobleman
of the Prince’s displeasure; also how Tybalt had slain Mercutio when
Romeo was trying to stop the duel; and how, after Mercutio’s death,
Tybalt had come back and fought with Romeo. Before Benvolio could part
them, Tybalt was slain, and now Romeo had fled.
The Capulets began to clamour for revenge. Benvolio, they said, was a
kinsman to the Montagues, and his affection made him speak falsely;
the matter was not as he described it. They begged for justice. Romeo
had slain Tybalt; Romeo must die.
“Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio,” said the Prince, grieving for
the loss of his own kinsman. “Who owes the price for Mercutio’s dear
blood?”
“Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio’s friend,” said Montague. “His
fault only concludes what the law should have ended--the life of
Tybalt.”
“And for that offence we exile him immediately,” pronounced the
Prince, determined by severe measures to put a stop to the incessant
brawling that was bringing sorrow to so many noble families. “I have
suffered because of your hate--my dear kinsman is slain. But I will
punish you with so heavy a fine that you shall all repent my loss. I
will be deaf to pleading and excuses; neither tears nor prayers shall
soften this sentence, therefore use none. Let Romeo leave the city at
once; else, when he is found, that hour shall be his last. Mercy only
encourages murder when it pardons those who kill.”
“Banished!”
When Juliet hastened to Friar Laurence’s cell to be married to Romeo,
her nurse went off in another direction, to secure a ladder of cords,
so that the young husband might visit his wife that evening, and
speak to her with less danger of discovery than if she were up in the
balcony and he below in the orchard.
This nurse of Juliet’s was a talkative, easy-tempered old person,
very fond of her nursling--of whom she had had charge since she was a
baby--and good-natured after a fashion, but vulgar-minded, and very
selfish if anything came to cross her own convenience. Juliet had
coaxed her into sympathy about her present affairs, and Romeo, being a
very handsome, open-handed young gentleman, the nurse for the moment
was on their side, and consented to act as messenger between them. But
her own aches and pains were at all times more important to the old
woman than the concerns of anyone else; and even when returning from
her mission to settle the time of the marriage, she was more occupied
in recounting her own ailments than in relieving the anxiety of her
young mistress to hear news of Romeo.
However, as long as things went well, she was willing to be amiable,
and the young girl was at least not left entirely destitute of any
confidant. But when trouble arose, the nurse’s shallow, selfish
nature became apparent, and poor Juliet was soon to learn that she
must rely solely on her own strength and judgment in the sorrows that
overwhelmed her.
After the marriage Juliet returned home, and there presently the
nurse joined her. She carried the ladder of cords she had gone to
fetch, but she flung it down with a gesture of despair, and her face
was the picture of woe.
“Ay me! What news? Why do you wring your hands?” exclaimed Juliet, a
sudden chill of terror clouding the sunshine of her joy.
“Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!” wailed the nurse.
“We are undone, lady--we are undone! Alack the day! He’s gone, he’s
killed, he’s dead!”
Juliet thought, of course, that the nurse referred to Romeo,
especially when she went on weeping and wailing and saying that she
had seen him lying dead with her own eyes. Juliet’s heart was nearly
broken at the dreadful news, when suddenly the stupid old woman, in
her confused style began to lament:
“O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! Honest
gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead!”
“What do you mean?” said poor, bewildered Juliet. “Is Romeo
slaughtered, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-loved cousin and my dearer
lord?”
“Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,” said the nurse. “Romeo that
killed him, he is banished.”
Her words were plain enough now. Juliet shrank back in horror.
“Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?”
“It did--it did. Alas the day, it did!”
Juliet’s first impulse was to heap reproaches on her newly made
husband, who hid so vile a nature under so fair a seeming; but when
the nurse chimed eagerly in, and said there was no trust, no faith, no
honesty in man,--they were _all_ perjured, _all_ dissemblers, Juliet
immediately changed her tone, and broke into an indignant defence of
Romeo.
“Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?” asked the nurse.
“Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?” cried Juliet. “Ah, poor
my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name when I, thy three-hours
wife, have wronged it?”
Worse, far worse to her, than her cousin’s death was the terrible news
that Romeo was banished. “Tybalt is dead, and Romeo--banished!” The
dreadful words kept ringing in her ears. “Romeo is banished! There is
no end, no limit, measure, bound, in that word’s death; no words can
fathom that woe,” she mourned.
Juliet bade the nurse carry away the ladder of cords, for it was of no
use now. Romeo was exiled, she would never see him again; death, and
not Romeo, would be her husband.
The old woman was melted to pity at the sight of Juliet’s misery.
“Go to your room,” she said soothingly. “I’ll find Romeo to comfort
you. I know well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at
night. I’ll go to him; he is hidden in Friar Laurence’s cell.”
“Oh, find him! Give this ring to my true knight,” cried Juliet, “and
bid him come to take his last farewell.”
* * * * *
Forced to find a refuge after the death of Tybalt, Romeo had gone
to the man who had always been a friend to him, and the good Friar
Laurence had given him shelter in his cell. He then sallied forth to
learn how matters were going, and presently returned with the news of
the doom that the Prince had pronounced--Romeo was banished. Romeo was
in despair when he heard the sentence. To him banishment seemed worse
than death. In vain the Friar tried to comfort him, pointing out that
the sentence was more merciful than what he had a right to expect.
Romeo declared it was torture, and not mercy. Heaven was here where
Juliet lived; and henceforth every cat and dog, and little mouse, and
unworthy thing, might look at her, but he might not. Every creature
was free, but he was banished. Was there no poison, no sharp knife, no
sudden way of death, however mean, that might have killed him, that he
must live on in torture, with that word “banished”?
The good Friar tried to reason with him, but for the moment Romeo was
past all reason; he refused to listen to any words of counsel, and
flung himself down on the ground in a perfect frenzy of grief.
At that moment there came a knocking at the outside door.
“Arise; someone is knocking. Good Romeo hide thyself,” entreated the
Friar.
But Romeo refused to stir. The knocking came again, louder and more
imperative.
“Hark how they knock!... Who’s there?... Romeo, arise; thou wilt
be taken.... Stay awhile.... Stand up! Run to my study.... In a
minute.... Heavens! what folly is this?... I come--I come!”
The Friar’s entreaties to Romeo were mixed with broken ejaculations to
the person knocking outside, but as the headstrong young man refused
to move from the spot where he had flung himself down on the floor of
the cell, Friar Laurence dared no longer delay to open the door.
[Illustration: “Romeo, arise; thou wilt be taken!”]
Happily the new-comer was only Juliet’s nurse, and no dangerous or
inquisitive visitor. Romeo eagerly demanded news, and then, in a fresh
passion of remorse at the misery he had brought on his dear lady,
threatened madly to kill himself, and drew his sword.
The Friar stayed his hand, and now began sternly to rebuke him for
his frantic behaviour and unmanly lack of all self-control. Then he
pointed out that he had still many blessings left to him, though he
chose sullenly to ignore them. Juliet still lived--he was happy in
that; the law that might have condemned him to death had turned it
into exile--he was happy in that; finally, the Friar bade him go to
Juliet as had been arranged, and comfort her.
“But take care not to stay till the watch be set,” he counselled, “for
then you cannot pass to Mantua, where you shall live till we can find
a time to publish your marriage, reconcile your friends, beg pardon of
the Prince, and call you back, with twenty hundred thousand times more
joy than you went forth in lamentation.”
Romeo was greatly cheered by the brave words of the Friar, and the
nurse hurried back to Juliet with the news that her husband would soon
be with her.