The real hatred is between these two, since Tybalt has just killed Romeo’s friend. By contrast, the bout between Tybalt and Mercutio starts in a relatively light-hearted vein before digging deeper and opening real veins, so to speak.
Now, I was playing Mercutio and so was required to fight and die in the public eye. When it comes to fighting, the public eye is sharp and wants value for money. Londoners are used to pageants and jousts, and any stage company worth its salt must make a good fist of fighting. Not every player is an accomplished swordsman, even though it’s one of those skills – like dancing and singing – which you tend to pick up as the years go by, however useless you are to begin with. In my opinion Mercutio is not that good a swordsman, in fact he’s more of a
wordsman
. Or perhaps it was rather that I knew myself to be clumsy with a sword and was projecting this on to my character. Unlike Richard Burbage, for example, who still gave Romeo a professional edge when he flashed his blade. And unlike Jack Wilson who was taking the part of Tybalt, and against whom I was scheduled to fight.
True, I had played a fighter during a performance the previous winter as Prince Troilus. But, though there’s plenty of talk about Troilus’s prowess as a fighter we don’t actually
see
much sign of it on stage, and I’d been able to hide behind Shakespeare’s lines. Now, however, I would have to give a good account of myself, not only with words but with the sword. I also knew that if I ever wanted to progress to the larger parts – Hamlet the Dane, say, that noble duellist – then I would have to prove my dexterity with the foil.
So, after the half-way point in
Romeo and Juliet
when we weren’t needed at practice, I suggested to my friend Jack Wilson that we might run through a few passes and thrusts outside. The reason we weren’t needed was that we, as Tybalt and Mercutio, were both dead. And the reason I suggested a practice was because I’d noticed Dick Burbage frowning a little at some of my strokes and slashes. You need to learn how to handle a foil, his frown said, confirming what I already knew.
The others remained indoors while Jack and I found a secluded spot on one of the Doctor’s untilled lawns. Hugh Fern had given the Chamberlain’s the run of the public rooms of his house and of its gardens. His generosity towards us was marked. I suppose that it was connected to his one-time wish to become a player, which Shakespeare had mentioned. The morning was fine and clear, with that pleasant view over Oxford’s towers and spires. We soon worked up a sweat, or at any rate I did.
Jack was trying to instruct me in the niceties of the various strokes. This was necessary since Mercutio, good swordsman or not, is certain to be familiar with all the terms and poses which will enable him to cut a good figure in the piazza. He is an Italian after all.
“No, Nick, no,” said Jack, standing next to me and grasping my right hand. “
This
is the
stocatta
. You go under your opponent’s weapon, and up. So.”
“I thought that was the
imbrocatta
.”
“That is
over
your opponent’s weapon. The
stocatta
is usually directed to the belly. So . . . ”
And he lunged forward, taking my arm and the foil along with him.
“The
stocatta
,” I said. ”
Stocatta.
”
“Forget the terms,” said Jack. “Unless you think you will one day be a gentleman and fight duels and get left for dead on the field or clapped up in gaol for your pains.”
“How did you learn them then?”
“My father. He had ambitions for me as a gentleman, not a player. He would have preferred me to hunt and ride, not strut about on stage in front of the common people.”
It’s surprising what you learn about people you thought you knew. I would have heard more but Jack, perhaps suspecting me of time-wasting, returned to the practice.
“Concentrate instead on the moves, the thrusts. Not the names. So – like this! And this!
Now, I was playing Mercutio and so was required to fight and die in the public eye. When it comes to fighting, the public eye is sharp and wants value for money. Londoners are used to pageants and jousts, and any stage company worth its salt must make a good fist of fighting. Not every player is an accomplished swordsman, even though it’s one of those skills – like dancing and singing – which you tend to pick up as the years go by, however useless you are to begin with. In my opinion Mercutio is not that good a swordsman, in fact he’s more of a
wordsman
. Or perhaps it was rather that I knew myself to be clumsy with a sword and was projecting this on to my character. Unlike Richard Burbage, for example, who still gave Romeo a professional edge when he flashed his blade. And unlike Jack Wilson who was taking the part of Tybalt, and against whom I was scheduled to fight.
True, I had played a fighter during a performance the previous winter as Prince Troilus. But, though there’s plenty of talk about Troilus’s prowess as a fighter we don’t actually
see
much sign of it on stage, and I’d been able to hide behind Shakespeare’s lines. Now, however, I would have to give a good account of myself, not only with words but with the sword. I also knew that if I ever wanted to progress to the larger parts – Hamlet the Dane, say, that noble duellist – then I would have to prove my dexterity with the foil.
So, after the half-way point in
Romeo and Juliet
when we weren’t needed at practice, I suggested to my friend Jack Wilson that we might run through a few passes and thrusts outside. The reason we weren’t needed was that we, as Tybalt and Mercutio, were both dead. And the reason I suggested a practice was because I’d noticed Dick Burbage frowning a little at some of my strokes and slashes. You need to learn how to handle a foil, his frown said, confirming what I already knew.
The others remained indoors while Jack and I found a secluded spot on one of the Doctor’s untilled lawns. Hugh Fern had given the Chamberlain’s the run of the public rooms of his house and of its gardens. His generosity towards us was marked. I suppose that it was connected to his one-time wish to become a player, which Shakespeare had mentioned. The morning was fine and clear, with that pleasant view over Oxford’s towers and spires. We soon worked up a sweat, or at any rate I did.
Jack was trying to instruct me in the niceties of the various strokes. This was necessary since Mercutio, good swordsman or not, is certain to be familiar with all the terms and poses which will enable him to cut a good figure in the piazza. He is an Italian after all.
“No, Nick, no,” said Jack, standing next to me and grasping my right hand. “
This
is the
stocatta
. You go under your opponent’s weapon, and up. So.”
“I thought that was the
imbrocatta
.”
“That is
over
your opponent’s weapon. The
stocatta
is usually directed to the belly. So . . . ”
And he lunged forward, taking my arm and the foil along with him.
“The
stocatta
,” I said. ”
Stocatta.
”
“Forget the terms,” said Jack. “Unless you think you will one day be a gentleman and fight duels and get left for dead on the field or clapped up in gaol for your pains.”
“How did you learn them then?”
“My father. He had ambitions for me as a gentleman, not a player. He would have preferred me to hunt and ride, not strut about on stage in front of the common people.”
It’s surprising what you learn about people you thought you knew. I would have heard more but Jack, perhaps suspecting me of time-wasting, returned to the practice.
“Concentrate instead on the moves, the thrusts. Not the names. So – like this! And this!
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