[In the following essay, Limon interprets Tybalt's behavior in Act III, scene i of Romeo and Juliet in terms of Elizabethan codes of honor and the drama's themes of chance and misfortune.]

Although the first scene of act 3 of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is a decisive moment, indisputably forming the turning point in the development of the action and the dramatic tension of the work, it is nevertheless possible to gain the impression that not all its constituent elements have been satisfactorily interpreted and explained. It has to be stressed that the consequences attendant upon Mercutio's death directly dominate act 3 and reverberate throughout the remainder of the play. Mercutio's death leads directly to Tybalt's death at Romeo's hand, which in turn becomes the cause of Romeo's banishment, and this, through an intricate chain of contingencies, leads to the final catastrophe. All the events leading to Mercutio's death are thus of considerable importance to our understanding of the play, which may consequently influence actual theater productions. For this reason, I shall concentrate on the crucial scene, 3.1, which provides a primary motivating force for the major subsequent events.

Whereas the behavior of Romeo and Mercutio in this scene has been the object of detailed analyses,¹ the role of Tybalt has been apprehended in what might be called a one-sided fashion. As a rule, commentators have limited themselves to affirming the incontestable fact that he kills Mercutio and perishes later by the hand of Romeo—without investigating the typically Shakespearean subtlety of the motive of his behavior. It has of course been observed that Tybalt's guilt is extenuated by the fact that he is brazenly provoked to a duel by Mercutio. For instance, Raymond V. Utterback's interpretation is typical: “Mercutio now acts betrayed, outraged, and bitter. He is not angry only because Romeo has lost honor but because Tybalt goes unchallenged. … Mercutio is taking up Romeo's quarrel as he thinks it should be handled.”² Despite this, however, Tybalt is customarily treated—both by Shakespeare scholars and by theater directors³—as a headstrong adventurer who without due cause seeks revenge on innocent Romeo. But is it true that Tybalt has no due cause? After all, he himself recalls the “injuries / That thou [Romeo] hast done me” (3.1.65-66). Further, there is the hitherto unexplained fact of Tybalt's flight, just after he has inflicted the fatal wound on Mercutio. The stage directions in the first quarto edition (1597) refer explicitly to the escape: “Tibalt vnder Romeos arm thrusts Mercutio in and flyes.” Why does he escape? Not, surely, for fear of Romeo, since it was precisely Romeo, and not Mercutio, that he was seeking; in any case, he comes back in a moment to face him. Nor can it be because he mortally wounds a man, since this is the object of the combat. What, then, is the reason?

An attempt to offer a convincing answer to this question must begin with a close analysis of the motives for Tybalt's behavior, seen “from his own point of view”—that is, from the point of view of the Renaissance gentleman, for whom matters of honor were of vital importance. Let us consider first the impulses that drove Tybalt along the road of revenge. The touchstone here was the appearance of Romeo at the Capulets' ball, to which he had not been invited. His irregular intrusion might well be considered as an insult to the house, and therefore to the family. We should not be surprised, then, by the reaction of the inflammable Tybalt at the moment when he recognizes the unbidden guest, who, to make matters worse, comes from a house rent by a feud:

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold not a sin.

(1.5.54-58)

Tybalt is not only personally insulted, but he makes it abundantly clear that it is his family's honor (“our solemnity,” “honour of my kin”) that is at stake; he is, moreover, convinced of the justice of his indignation, in accordance with the principles of honor mandatory at the time. This is also why not even the murder of Romeo would be, in his view, “a sin.” Restrained by Capulet, he yet swears vengeance:

Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall.

(1.5.88-91)

Although this is not shown directly on the stage, or rather, in the text of the play, Tybalt proceeds to action. On the next day at daybreak, he sends a letter to Romeo, probably containing a challenge to a duel. This is mentioned by Benvolio to Mercutio:

BEN.
Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his [Romeo's] father's house.
MER.
A challenge, on my life.
BEN.
Romeo will answer it.

(2.4.6-9)

Mercutio is quite right in believing that the letter contains a challenge (there is no further mention of this in the text), but Benvolio is mistaken: Romeo makes no reply to the letter because, having spent the night with Juliet, he had not yet reached home and in fact did not read the letter. Benvolio's comment has yet another meaning. When he calmly asserts that Romeo will answer the challenge (and, if necessary, proceed to a duel), he implies that Romeo will comport himself as a man of honor, since to leave such a challenge unanswered would be a dishonorable act. From Tybalt's point of view, by failing to answer his letter Romeo showed that he did not take him seriously, thus adding insult to injury. Perhaps, moreover, Tybalt judged that Romeo—having heard of his skill at the lists—was not turning out to be as brave as befitted a gentleman and was sitting out the storm somewhere in the town, in hiding. In the play Mercutio refers to Tybalt as “the very butcher of a silk button” (2.4.23). He alludes to a story of Rocco Bonetti, the Italian fencing master who established a popular fencing salle in Blackfriars and boasted that he could hit any English fencer on any button. This, according to Adolph L. Soens, had by the 1590s become an allusion to pride of skill in fencing.⁴ Anyway, it is Mercutio who stresses—objectively, it seems—Tybalt's superior qualities as a fencer. This, then, is why at about noon—not having had a reply to his letter—Tybalt loses patience and personally goes in search of Romeo to administer a suitable lesson and deal him severe punishment for the “wrong-doing.”

It is worth mentioning that when it comes to their meeting, Tybalt refers to his rival by the term “villain,” which does not necessarily denote “criminal” or “malefactor.” Indeed, this would be unwarranted invective. One of the definitions given by the OED [Oxford English Dictionary] is “a man of ignoble ideas,” that is, a man without a code of honor or a man who does not observe the code. Shakespeare uses the word in this sense in other plays (see The Comedy of Errors, 5.1.29ff.). From this one can infer that when he addresses Romeo with the words “thou art a villain” (3.1.60), Tybalt is thinking of what in his judgment is the dishonorable behavior of Romeo, who (a) attends the ball uninvited, (b) does not reply to the letter containing the challenge, and presumably (c) avoids the meeting.

Of course, as a consequence of the unfortunate sequence of circumstances, when it actually comes to the meeting Romeo knows little of what is in Tybalt's mind; in the first place he is not aware that he was recognized at the ball, and in the second place he has not yet been home and has not read the letter. The behavior of Romeo, who expressly avoids quarrel, is the more comprehensible since he has just become married to Juliet; Tybalt, knowing nothing of this, has already been his kinsman for “an hour.” Mercutio does not know about this either and judges that after a night of frolicking with Rosaline, Romeo will be in no fit condition for a duel with such a skilled fencer as Tybalt. It is Mercutio who earlier in the play admitted that Tybalt

… fights as you sing pricksong, keeps time, distance and proportion. He rests his minim rests, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button—a duellist, a duellist, a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause.

(2.4.20-25)

And in the same scene he expresses his worries about the result of the duel:

Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench's black eye, run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft. And is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

(2.4.13-17)

By provoking Tybalt to a duel—and there is little doubt that he is the aggressor—Mercutio replaces Romeo in the discharge of what he considers the honorable obligation.⁵ Everything, indeed, is enacted in accordance with the Elizabethan code of honor, which provided for a relative or close friend to replace a combatant who was not capable of fighting. In the opposite case—that is, if Romeo was physically fit (in Mercutio's opinion)—to relieve him of the obligation of the duel would be a dishonorable act. Tybalt avoids quarrelling, but when Mercutio's taunts become unbearable, he too draws his rapier. Critics generally agree that Mercutio virtually forces Tybalt to fight, but the difference in my approach is that I propose a different motivation for Mercutio's aggressive behavior.

Thus, as the duel begins, Romeo strives to avert a disaster. He shouts to Benvolio: “Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons” (3.1.85), which leads one to suppose that Romeo was not armed. If he had a weapon, he would surely have done himself what he asks Benvolio to do. Let me recall that during the Capulets' ball, the young gentlemen present were not armed: when Tybalt recognizes Romeo, he asks a servant to fetch his rapier. Romeo has not been home since the previous day, and when Tybalt meets him, he is on his way from the chapel and marriage to Juliet. However, Benvolio does not interfere in the duel, so Romeo calls on the gentlemen present to part the combatants: “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage” (86); but when this is without effect, he reminds them of the Prince's ban on duels in Verona (on pain of death). When he sees that all his efforts are of no avail, he leaps between the combatants with the cry “Hold Tybalt! Good Mercutio!” (89). The stage direction informs us that at this moment Tybalt thrusts his rapier under Romeo's arm into the body of Mercutio, after which he runs away (“flyes”).

The immediate question is: why does Tybalt run away? He is not a coward, after all. And in any case, what could he be afraid of? It appears to be an uncontrolled reflex act, the motives for which I shall try to establish. It must be something exceptional, seeing that Tybalt—who is very sensitive in matters of honor—resolves on the highly dishonorable act of running away. Was he really horrified by the shameful act of administering that crafty thrust under the arm of Romeo, taking advantage of Mercutio's momentary inattention? But how do we know that the thrust was so treacherous? Hardly anyone noticed it, after all, except Tybalt, who must certainly have felt how deeply the blade penetrated the flesh. Even Mercutio himself appears to be surprised when he confirms laconically, “I am hurt” (91). If Tybalt's guile had been intended by Shakespeare, then the duel would have been played out in such a way that no one would have been left in any doubt. But in fact there is doubt. The whole event takes place unnoticed, seeing that Mercutio has to inform his friends standing close to him (and the spectators in the theater) that he has been wounded. Characteristic, too, is Benvolio's surprise: “What, art thou hurt?” (93), while Romeo takes Mercutio's black humor at its face value and belittles the “scratch”: “Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much” (96). The amazement of the witnesses at the whole incident is thus beyond dispute. They are surprised to learn that Mercutio is hurt; they seem not to have noticed themselves.

How, then, do we know that the thrust was administered craftily? We gain this information mainly from the report of Benvolio when he describes the course of events to the Prince. This report is apparently delivered in the heat of the moment, and yet it is remarkably artful. Seeking to efface the guilt of Mercutio and Romeo, Benvolio lays the blame on Tybalt alone, and in a clearly tendentious manner at that. The inconsistency of Benvolio's statements with the facts has been noticed before, but in this case, scholars have made an exception, unreservedly accepting precisely that part of the description when Benvolio says: “… underneath whose [Romeo's] arm / An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life / Of stout Mercutio … (169-71). This, then, is a rather detailed description, acting upon the imagination of the hearers, but one cannot help wondering how Benvolio was able to remember such details in view of the fact that previously—that is, during the duel—he did not notice anything and indeed was amazed that anything had happened. Not even Romeo, Mercutio's closest friend, reproaches Tybalt (when the latter returns) with killing Mercutio out of guile. The only person who speaks of “envy” is Benvolio—and this at the moment when, recounting the facts to the Prince, he tries to cleanse Romeo of all blame to show that he had to avenge the death of his treacherously slain friend. Thanks to the particular way in which he presents the course of events, he gains what he intended: the Prince commutes the death sentence to one of banishment. Thus this is not a description that can be relied upon without reservation. Yet this is precisely what happens traditionally in stage management and in critical scholarship.⁶ The only exception known to me is Franco Zeffirelli's film version of the play, in which Tybalt's thrust is shown as accidental. In all other productions and in critical interpretations the infamous Tybalt, profiting by a moment of distraction on Mercutio's part, delivers him a treacherous thrust, after which—horrified by his own action—he flees.

Is this really the only way to interpret the flight of Tybalt? We have already reflected on the trustworthiness of Benvolio's words, and in this light it is by no means certain that Tybalt's deed was so disgraceful that he himself was horrified by it. Did he resort to treachery? To answer this question, and at the same time to indicate another possible interpretation, we must return to the moment when Romeo leaps in between the combatants and once again consider the technical particulars of the duel. If we take for granted that Romeo was unarmed, we have a full explanation of his helplessness and irresolution—shown in the fact that instead of jumping to action energetically himself, Romeo first asks Benvolio to act, and then the gentlemen to intervene—resulting from his knowledge of the danger that he would face by leaping unarmed between the combatants. This is why Romeo decides to act only as a last resort—one might say in desperation—when he sees that no one will do it for him. The danger came from the fact that Romeo might run onto the rapier's blade, thereby becoming the unintended victim, one without a weapon and unable to parry a blow.

It seems not improbable that this is what happened: let us imagine that Tybalt strikes in order to hit Mercutio, when suddenly, as if from below the ground, Romeo appears before him. Fortunately Tybalt is an excellent swordsman and always a man of honor: although it is Romeo who was to have been his victim, it was forbidden to even so much as scratch a third person (the one not taking part in the duel), so at the last moment he changes the direction of the thrust (which cannot now simply “hang in the air”) and buries the blade into the open space between the trunk and arm of Romeo. And then he feels something that he did not foresee or intend: the blade strikes flesh. It is a mistake to conclude that Tybalt profited by Mercutio's temporary inattention and treacherously dealt him a thrust from under Romeo's arm while he was not looking. That would have been a dishonorable act, inconsistent with binding principles. Mercutio found himself quite by chance in this place that was to be fatal to him; only an unhappy sequence of events causes Tybalt to hit him. The fact that Tybalt's deed was not premeditated or even intimated in advance to anyone is convincingly confirmed for us by the amazement that all the bystanders express. The fortuitousness of Mercutio's death would, moreover, be in harmony with the general character of this early tragedy of Shakespeare, in which chance and misfortune play a dominant role.

Thus when Tybalt, who does not want to injure Romeo, changes the direction of his thrust and strikes the unsuspecting Mercutio, he immediately realizes what has happened. He—almost oversensitive in matters of honor—has committed a shameful act, unworthy of gentleman. Chance imprints a stain on his honor and that of his family. This is what terrifies him; this is why he loses his head and reacts in a manner that is natural at such times—he runs away. After a time, however, he pulls himself together and, more or less composed, returns, to—well, why does he return? To meet Romeo again? Or perhaps to show that his flight was no more than a weakness of the moment?⁷

There must have been something irrational about Tybalt's reappearance on the stage, however, since Romeo describes him as follows: “Here comes the furious Tybalt back again” (123). Does “furious” mean “enraged” or “deranged” (cf. OED)? This second interpretation appears the more probable. Of course Tybalt may also be “enraged,” but it happens in his inner self and for reasons that he knows best. From the point of view of Romeo, on the other hand, Tybalt is simply “deranged,” and it is precisely from this madness that the misfortune comes that he must now avenge: Romeo, after all, still cannot understand the motives underlying Tybalt's behavior. There can be no doubt that Tybalt fully realized that his sudden flight from the field of battle would be attributed to cowardice. So he comes back to wipe away the disgrace that, in his eyes, covers the good name of his family. The outcome of the duel, from this point of view, no longer has much significance since in the eyes of the citizens he would always remain compromised—Benvolio's account, after all, would easily be believed. For him, it is vital that he return. He is psychologically very far from a state of equilibrium, and it is perhaps for this reason that—shaken, enraged, and “mad”—he succumbs in the duel. And yet he is an excellent swordsman; Mercutio had earlier, and not without reason, feared for the fate of Romeo. Must we, perhaps, assume—as has been done before—that Romeo surpasses himself, and thanks to technical superiority forestalls Tybalt, dealing him the fatal thrust? Or perhaps—and this seems more likely—Tybalt's nerves let him down, so that he died through lack of concentration. It is worth recalling that this duel is very brief. In the stage directions we find a curt description: “They fight. Tybalt falls.” No one says a word; perhaps no one had time to say a word. Benvolio describes it as follows (and here he has no particular reason for concealing truth):

And to't they go like lightning: for, ere I
Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain.

(3.1.174-75)

It is not, of course, important whether Benvolio really intended to separate them; what is important is that this intention serves to specify the duration of the duel.⁸ This is confirmed, in a sense, by Romeo himself, when he stands as if petrified over the dead Tybalt, as if he could not believe with his own eyes the truth of what had happened. Benvolio urges him: “Romeo, away, be gone! … Stand not amaz'd” (134-36). Is he astounded at the ease with which he has dispatched his adversary? It seems that only Tybalt's mental state can convincingly explain the fact that such an experienced and skilled swordsman can, in a split second, succumb to a youngster. This mental state, in turn, was provoked by the duel with Mercutio and by its fortuitous and unhappy end.

I do not, of course, claim that the above solutions are the definitive and final explanation of the questions touched on. They do constitute, however, one possible interpretation. As is usual in Shakespeare, there are many of these. This is particularly the case in theaters, where the director's arbitrary interpretations not uncommonly impoverish the psychological structure of the characters and their actions on the stage are deprived of the hallmarks of verisimilitude. For this reason also, this article may be considered as a proposal for staging, deviating admittedly from traditional theatrical realizations of Romeo and Juliet but faithful to the text of the play and likewise to its great author.

Notes

1. The fullest account is given by Henryk Zbierski in his Droga do Werony (Poznań: Wydawnictwo UAM, 1966), 203-25.

2. “The Death of Mercutio,” Shakespeare Quarterly 24 (1973): 111.

3. With the notable exception of Franco Zeffirelli's film. The original version of this essay was written in 1979 and appeared in print in 1983, before the author had a chance to see that film.

4. Adolph L. Soens, “Tybalt's Spanish Fencing in Romeo and Juliet,” Shakespeare Quarterly 20 (1969): 121-27.

5. Utterback states explicitly that “Mercutio virtually forces Tybalt to fight” (“Death of Mercutio,” 111).

6. Among others, Utterback concluded his article with a typical commentary: “Tybalt, the man of precise forms and code of honor, treacherously stabs Mercutio under Romeo's arm” (111). However, in more recent scholarship Benvolio's “strategic” misinterpretation of facts has been noticed; cf., for instance, Joan Ozark Holmer, “‘Myself Condemned and Myself Excused’: Tragic Effects in Romeo and Juliet,” Studies in Philology 81 (1984): 328-29.

7. Holmer's is a characteristic interpretation of Tybalt's return: “Amazingly Tybalt now returns to the scene of the crime, still ‘furious’ (123) and still seeking his original prey. How violent must one be to return to kill again, one's sword already bloodily ‘neighbor-stained’ (1.1.80)? Shakespeare's darker exploration of man's ‘rude will’ contrasts sharply with Franco Zeffirelli's version of this scene in his well-known film” (“‘Myself Condemned,’” 359).

8. The surprising discrepancy between the duration of the duel as suggested by the text and that of theatrical tradition was noticed by Zbierski, Droga do Werony, 225.