Chorus
(If you think I am Shakespeare, you have some serious problems. Yet, if you care to hear it straight out: I am not. I hate to inform, but he has been dead . . . and for a very long time. It makes me very sad.)
(Also, note: the beginning-- the Chorus chapter-- is a little slow; it is just exposition and a study on Tybalt's character, through his own eyes. If you want action, skip ahead to Act I.)
Capulet is a fine name.
It arouses a certain ring and even fear into the hearts of enemies (namely, the Montagues); it suggests a proud family of ancient Italy, brings to mind the large house on the east side of Verona, surrounding by impressive walls and massive gardens. A house that is more a compound, a mansion, a castle, than a house, though it goes by one name: the House of Capulet. Every Capulet lives within, from patriarch to lowest servant. All dine in the same fine dining room, all socialize in the same grand hall, all even die in the same death room-- and are buried in the private Capulet monument in the church at the heart of Verona. To be a Capulet is to be proud, elite, noble, immortal.
Alas, I am not a Capulet.
My name is Tybalt Niccolini. I am only in the Capulet circle by marriage-- specifically, that my aunt, the Lady Capulet. She is my father's only sister. Father is six years her elder, the patriarch of the Veronese Niccolinis-- not that that ever meant much. My aunt's status was magnified to a thousand times greater than his as soon as she married, and he never quite forgave her-- though he did think highly enough to leave me in her care when he died.
I was raised in the inner Capulet circle. Mother died in childbirth with me, and Father passed away when I was but six. Because I was too young to head the Niccolini family at that age, I was taken in as a related ward by my aunt and uncle, the head of the Capulet family. I lived as close as a brother would to my cousin Juliet, who was only three when I entered her house.
Yet I cannot help but feel inferior when I am a male, older than Juliet, and as close to her parents as if they were my own, and yet Juliet is the heiress to the finest family in Verona. Of course, I am the heir to my own fortunes, but they are so small-- and I am in no hurry to leave the pomp and circumstance of the House of Capulet for my own small Niccolini way.
Though I am not a Capulet by blood, I cannot deny my Capulet tendencies. I share enough traits with my uncle, I seem related. We are both explosively aggressive, especially when it comes to family pride and honor, though my uncle is slightly more refined and dignified. I, as the youthful one, have received the reputation for it. There's something about reputations-- having one makes one act accordingly to it, therefore prompting it along. I confess I erupt over petty things, simply because I can. It is my prerogative under my name.
Aunt says it's because I have a bad spleen.
It was my choleric energy (once again, the spleen-- though I can't understand how my spleen can cause such trouble when it's never once ailed me) that inspired my uncle to enroll me in a fencing school. He demanded only a best for a Capulet relation, and a few years later I emerged an excellent duelist, if I may boast. I am well trained in the use of rapiers, daggers, and longswords; I am unparalleled in Verona. In this, I have a reputation even greater than that of my temper.
Some of my companions from the fencing academy who have kept correspondence with me complain that their skills are useless in our increasingly peaceful society. Men carry swords for fashion, not necessity. There's no opportunity to show off the which we labored so hard to master.
Lucky for me, however, the Capulets never lack fighting occasions to duel. No one is quite sure how the feud was started (every member of the Capulets stands that it was a Montague's fault-- though I am certain it is another tale in Montague house), but it has lasted for centuries. I am not one to break tradition. Even before I became a trained fencer, I reveled in the tensions between the two families-- families so influential they each were more a clan than a family. Though many considered Capulets (myself included) are not truly of the bloodline, any in favor with the family are treated as such. The whole city seems to part either way; even the Prince's kinsmen are split: Paris frequents our estate while his crude cousin Mercutio befriends the Montague boys. The feud seems to have kept the city in a constant battle of loyalties; it gives Verona a flavor, and a vibrance. Walking along the streets with my uncle as a small boy, I watched with awe and pride as he spat at the feet of Montague, and felt a glowing sense of satisfaction when Montague squirmed and fumbled with his rapier. The two never drew on each other until I came of age-- and sometimes I wonder if that might have been the reason. However, neither failed to join in if any excitable servants made the first move. I latched on to the sacred tradition, seeking out the Montagues and memorizing their faces so I would never make the mistake of befriending one. At home I reveled in indoctrinating stories of Capulet glory told to me by my older cousins, and, as I aged, passed them on to Juliet myself. As soon as I was capable, I joined in the fighting myself, matched against those closest in age and rank to I. The code of honor demanded I fight only young noblemen as myself; servants fought servants and patriarch fought patriarch. Sadly, my matches are pathetic fighters; I could easily face Lord Montague himself, and yet I am stuck with them. Romeo, the sickening fair-faced heir to the Montague line, does nothing more than sigh and mope to his cousins. He is a sentimental, melodramatic poet, afflicted with the melancholy the way I am with choler. He is a disgrace of a man. His cousin Benvolio is no better; the small, dark-haired boy winces at the sight of blood and would sooner stutter out feeble excuses than wield the sword he has privilege to carry. Such a pathetic pacifist . . . it is only my sense of honor and pity that keeps me from running him through. Besides, if I got rid of him, who would I have to toy with?
Recently, the brawls have accelerating in intensity. I wonder if I may be blamed for that. Sometimes, I fear, that in trying so hard to prove myself a good Capulet, I overdo it. I love my family and the name of Capulet; I love fencing and the rigors of noble honor. There is no better way to express both than through the feud. By defending the Capulet name, should I not prove myself just as worthy of the title as those under it?
(If you think I am Shakespeare, you have some serious problems. Yet, if you care to hear it straight out: I am not. I hate to inform, but he has been dead . . . and for a very long time. It makes me very sad.)
(Also, note: the beginning-- the Chorus chapter-- is a little slow; it is just exposition and a study on Tybalt's character, through his own eyes. If you want action, skip ahead to Act I.)
Capulet is a fine name.
It arouses a certain ring and even fear into the hearts of enemies (namely, the Montagues); it suggests a proud family of ancient Italy, brings to mind the large house on the east side of Verona, surrounding by impressive walls and massive gardens. A house that is more a compound, a mansion, a castle, than a house, though it goes by one name: the House of Capulet. Every Capulet lives within, from patriarch to lowest servant. All dine in the same fine dining room, all socialize in the same grand hall, all even die in the same death room-- and are buried in the private Capulet monument in the church at the heart of Verona. To be a Capulet is to be proud, elite, noble, immortal.
Alas, I am not a Capulet.
My name is Tybalt Niccolini. I am only in the Capulet circle by marriage-- specifically, that my aunt, the Lady Capulet. She is my father's only sister. Father is six years her elder, the patriarch of the Veronese Niccolinis-- not that that ever meant much. My aunt's status was magnified to a thousand times greater than his as soon as she married, and he never quite forgave her-- though he did think highly enough to leave me in her care when he died.
I was raised in the inner Capulet circle. Mother died in childbirth with me, and Father passed away when I was but six. Because I was too young to head the Niccolini family at that age, I was taken in as a related ward by my aunt and uncle, the head of the Capulet family. I lived as close as a brother would to my cousin Juliet, who was only three when I entered her house.
Yet I cannot help but feel inferior when I am a male, older than Juliet, and as close to her parents as if they were my own, and yet Juliet is the heiress to the finest family in Verona. Of course, I am the heir to my own fortunes, but they are so small-- and I am in no hurry to leave the pomp and circumstance of the House of Capulet for my own small Niccolini way.
Though I am not a Capulet by blood, I cannot deny my Capulet tendencies. I share enough traits with my uncle, I seem related. We are both explosively aggressive, especially when it comes to family pride and honor, though my uncle is slightly more refined and dignified. I, as the youthful one, have received the reputation for it. There's something about reputations-- having one makes one act accordingly to it, therefore prompting it along. I confess I erupt over petty things, simply because I can. It is my prerogative under my name.
Aunt says it's because I have a bad spleen.
It was my choleric energy (once again, the spleen-- though I can't understand how my spleen can cause such trouble when it's never once ailed me) that inspired my uncle to enroll me in a fencing school. He demanded only a best for a Capulet relation, and a few years later I emerged an excellent duelist, if I may boast. I am well trained in the use of rapiers, daggers, and longswords; I am unparalleled in Verona. In this, I have a reputation even greater than that of my temper.
Some of my companions from the fencing academy who have kept correspondence with me complain that their skills are useless in our increasingly peaceful society. Men carry swords for fashion, not necessity. There's no opportunity to show off the which we labored so hard to master.
Lucky for me, however, the Capulets never lack fighting occasions to duel. No one is quite sure how the feud was started (every member of the Capulets stands that it was a Montague's fault-- though I am certain it is another tale in Montague house), but it has lasted for centuries. I am not one to break tradition. Even before I became a trained fencer, I reveled in the tensions between the two families-- families so influential they each were more a clan than a family. Though many considered Capulets (myself included) are not truly of the bloodline, any in favor with the family are treated as such. The whole city seems to part either way; even the Prince's kinsmen are split: Paris frequents our estate while his crude cousin Mercutio befriends the Montague boys. The feud seems to have kept the city in a constant battle of loyalties; it gives Verona a flavor, and a vibrance. Walking along the streets with my uncle as a small boy, I watched with awe and pride as he spat at the feet of Montague, and felt a glowing sense of satisfaction when Montague squirmed and fumbled with his rapier. The two never drew on each other until I came of age-- and sometimes I wonder if that might have been the reason. However, neither failed to join in if any excitable servants made the first move. I latched on to the sacred tradition, seeking out the Montagues and memorizing their faces so I would never make the mistake of befriending one. At home I reveled in indoctrinating stories of Capulet glory told to me by my older cousins, and, as I aged, passed them on to Juliet myself. As soon as I was capable, I joined in the fighting myself, matched against those closest in age and rank to I. The code of honor demanded I fight only young noblemen as myself; servants fought servants and patriarch fought patriarch. Sadly, my matches are pathetic fighters; I could easily face Lord Montague himself, and yet I am stuck with them. Romeo, the sickening fair-faced heir to the Montague line, does nothing more than sigh and mope to his cousins. He is a sentimental, melodramatic poet, afflicted with the melancholy the way I am with choler. He is a disgrace of a man. His cousin Benvolio is no better; the small, dark-haired boy winces at the sight of blood and would sooner stutter out feeble excuses than wield the sword he has privilege to carry. Such a pathetic pacifist . . . it is only my sense of honor and pity that keeps me from running him through. Besides, if I got rid of him, who would I have to toy with?
Recently, the brawls have accelerating in intensity. I wonder if I may be blamed for that. Sometimes, I fear, that in trying so hard to prove myself a good Capulet, I overdo it. I love my family and the name of Capulet; I love fencing and the rigors of noble honor. There is no better way to express both than through the feud. By defending the Capulet name, should I not prove myself just as worthy of the title as those under it?