The Shakespeare Story-Book · Mary Macleod
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But the joyous, free life of the forest was drawing to a close, though much happiness was still in store for those who had wandered there. A day came when Orlando for once failed to keep his tryst. He had left Rosalind, promising to return within an hour, but in his stead there came to the two cousins a stranger bearing a handkerchief stained with blood. Briefly he told his tale. Orlando had been walking through the forest, when he saw a wretched man, ragged and unkempt, sleeping under a tree. Round his neck a green and gilded snake had twined itself, and its head was just poised to strike, when, seeing Orlando, it glided away under a bush. But the peril was not yet over, for under that very bush couched a famished lioness, watching like a cat, to pounce on the sleeping man the moment he should stir. And having seen this, Orlando approached, and found it was his brother--his eldest brother. Remembering the cruel way in which Oliver had always treated him, his first impulse was to leave him to his fate, but his better nature conquered. Orlando did battle with the lioness, who quickly fell before him. “And in the noise of the struggle I awakened from my miserable slumber,” said the stranger. “Are you his brother? Was it you who so often plotted to kill him?” asked Celia.
“It _was_ I, but it is I no longer,” said Oliver. Orlando’s noble behaviour had completely overcome his malicious nature; all evil thoughts against Orlando were banished, and for the future the two brothers were the best of friends. Oliver was made welcome by the Duke, and was afterwards talking to Orlando in his own cave, when his brother, calling on the name of Rosalind, suddenly fainted. His arm had been badly torn by the lioness, and had been bleeding all this time. Oliver revived him, bound up the wound, and after a little, Orlando, being brave of heart, begged his brother, stranger as he was, to find his friends at the shepherd’s cottage, and explain to them why he had been unable to keep his promise. He sent the handkerchief dyed in his blood to the shepherd youth whom he had called in sport his Rosalind. On hearing of the peril through which Orlando had passed, Rosalind was so moved that she almost betrayed herself by fainting. Oliver was somewhat astonished at such weakness on the part of a youth, but Rosalind tried to pretend it was only a counterfeit. Her pale looks, however, showed too plainly that the swoon was no counterfeit, though she persisted in declaring it was, and bade Oliver carry back word to Orlando how well she had pretended to faint.
“Do you speak in sober earnest?” demanded Orlando, scarcely able to credit what he heard. “I do, on my life--which I value tenderly, though I _am_ a magician. Therefore put on your best array, invite your friends: for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind if you will.” The promise, which appeared so amazing to Orlando, was, of course, easily kept, and the following day, when the Duke and all the wedding guests assembled to witness Oliver’s wedding, Rosalind and Celia appeared without their disguise, and in their real attire. The banished Duke found a daughter, and Orlando found his Rosalind. In the midst of the wedding festivities arrived the second son of Sir Rowland de Boys, bearing the tidings that Duke Frederick had been converted by a religious man, and meant to leave the world and all its pomp. He bequeathed his crown to his banished brother, and restored all their lands to the lords who had been exiled with him. In the general chorus of pleasure there was only one discordant note. Jaques the cynic--“melancholy Jaques”--refused to join in the harmless mirth. He announced his intention of following Duke Frederick into retirement. He bade the others all follow their different forms of enjoyment,--as for himself, “I am for other than for dancing measures,” he declared.
“Stay, Jaques--stay,” begged the Duke. “Not to see any pastime,” was the grim response. “If you want anything, I will stay to hear it at your abandoned cave.” Like King Solomon of old, Jaques had tasted all the pleasures of life, and had delighted in studying his fellow-mortals; but his stores of wit and wisdom brought him no real satisfaction. “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” was all that his worldly philosophy had taught him, and his sharp-eyed cynicism saw only the base and ludicrous side of human nature. So he went his way, rejecting the kindly fellowship that was offered him, and taking a half-exultant pride in his own loneliness and melancholy. But the Duke ordered the rejoicings to proceed, and the green glades of the Forest of Arden rang with the sound of song and laughter. The Taming of the Shrew A Rough Courtship “Katherine the curst!” That is not a pretty title for a maiden, but that was the nickname given to one, renowned all through Padua for her scolding tongue. Baptista Minola had two daughters, both young and beautiful, but very different in disposition, for while Bianca, the younger, was so sweet and gentle that she was beloved by all, the elder sister Katharine had such a violent and ungovernable temper that everyone feared and disliked her.
Bianca had several suitors, but Baptista, her father, was firmly resolved not to allow his youngest daughter to marry until he had secured a husband for the elder. In the meantime he declared Bianca should stay quietly at home; but as he loved his daughter, and did not want the time to pass heavily with her, he promised to provide schoolmasters, to instruct her in the studies in which she took most delight--music and poetry. Bianca meekly submitted to this somewhat hard decree, but two of her suitors--Gremio and Hortensio--were very indignant that she should be kept secluded in this fashion. They were rivals in their courtship, but this hindrance to them both made them friends. They agreed to do their best to find a husband for Katharine, and thus, when the younger sister was free again, to set to work afresh to see which could win her. On the very day when Baptista announced his resolve, there arrived in Padua a great friend of Hortensio’s, whose name was Petruchio, and who lived in Verona. Petruchio told Hortensio that his father was dead, and that he had now come abroad to see the world. He had money in his pockets, possessions at home, and possibly he would marry if he could find a wife. Hortensio’s thoughts, of course, at once flew to Katharine, and half in jest he offered to supply Petruchio with a wife, shrewish and ill-favoured, he said, but rich--very rich.
“But you are too much my friend,” he concluded; “I could not wish you to marry her.” Petruchio, in his own way, was as perverse and self-willed as Katharine, and he immediately replied that the lady might be old, ugly, and as great a shrew as Xantippe, wife of Socrates, but so long as she was wealthy he was quite ready to marry her. Seeing his friend in this mood, Hortensio continued in earnest what he had begun in jest. “Petruchio,” he said, “I can help you to a wife, with wealth enough, and who is young and beautiful, and brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman; her only fault, and that is fault enough, is that she has an intolerable temper, and is so violent and wayward, beyond all measure, that if I were far poorer than I am I would not wed her for a mine of gold.” Petruchio, however, was a gentleman of valiant disposition and most determined will, and he was not in the least daunted by all the reports he heard of Katharine’s terrible temper. “Do you think a little noise can frighten me?” he said. “Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the seas puffed up with wind, rage like an angry boar? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, and heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard loud alarums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang, and do you tell me of a woman’s tongue? Tush, tush! Frighten boys with bogies!”
Bianca’s suitors were delighted to have found such a match for Katharine, and the lady’s father was equally pleased, and promised a handsome dowry, though he was rather doubtful of Petruchio’s success in winning his daughter. But it soon turned out Petruchio had not in the least over-rated his powers. He knew that kindness and soft words would be thrown away in dealing with such a nature as Katharine’s; she was accustomed to everyone’s giving in to her, and the very gentleness and submission of Bianca had only the effect of irritating her more. Petruchio determined to adopt an entirely different plan, and to fight Katharine, as it were, with her own weapons. Instead of meekly yielding to all her whims and tantrums, he intended to thwart her on every possible occasion; if she railed at him, then he would tell her plainly that she sang as sweetly as a nightingale; if she frowned, he would say she looked as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew; if she were mute and would not speak a word, then he would praise her volubility, and say she spoke with piercing eloquence; if she bade him depart, he would thank her as though she bade him remain for a week; if she refused to wed him, he would ask what day he should have the banns called, and when be married.
The plan that Petruchio had had the shrewdness to invent he had strength of will to carry out. It was absolutely useless for the fiery lady to try to overawe him by anger, scorn, ridicule, or insolence. Petruchio ignored all her insulting speeches with the most perfect good-humour, and his own self-possession and satirical remarks reduced her to a state of hopeless fury. The moment she appeared he started by contradicting her, insisted that she was called “Kate,” although she said she was called “Katharine,” and declared that, having heard her mildness praised in every town, her virtues spoken of, and her beauty extolled, he had come to woo her for his wife. It was useless for Katharine to get into a passion and shower abuse on him. The ruder she became, the more charming he pretended to think her. “I find you extremely gentle,” he said. “It was told me you were rough and coy and sullen, but now I find report is a liar; for you are pleasant, playful, extremely courteous; a little slow in speech, but sweet as spring flowers; you cannot frown, you cannot look askance, not bite your lip as angry wenches will; nor does it please you to be cross in talk, but you entertain your suitors with gentle conversation, soft and affable.”
This method of treatment was entirely novel to Katharine, and she scarcely knew how to contain herself at such audacity; but the torrent of angry words she poured out had no effect whatever on this determined suitor. He treated her furious speeches as idle chat, and told her calmly that her father had given his consent, the dowry was agreed on, and that, willing or unwilling, he intended to marry her. The beauty of this fiery maiden took his fancy, and the thought of taming her wild nature to his own will filled him with more pleasure than he would have felt at winning a gentle and submissive creature for his wife. When Baptista a few minutes later entered to ask how the courtship was speeding, Petruchio announced that he and Katharine were so well agreed that they were going to be married on the following Sunday. “I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first,” was Katharine’s wrathful rejoinder; but, all the same, when Sunday arrived the bride was ready, dressed, and waiting for her eccentric bridegroom. The Marriage, and After The bride was ready, the guests were assembled, but the bridegroom still tarried. Petruchio intended to teach Katharine a severe lesson. She had never shown the slightest consideration for anyone else; her proud, overbearing nature had always carried everything before it, and her violent temper had quelled any attempt at argument. But in Petruchio she had met her match. It was his aim to humble her pride thoroughly, and to show her how unpleasant it is for others to have to live with a person who is perpetually flying into a passion.
The first humiliation to Katharine was the lateness of the bridegroom’s arrival, but still more mortifying to her pride, when he did at last appear, was the extraordinary array in which he had chosen to attire himself. His hat was new, but his jerkin was old, and his breeches had been turned three times; his boots were not a pair, one was buckled, the other laced; and he had taken out of the town armoury a rusty old sword with a broken hilt. His horse was a poor wretched creature, scarcely able to hobble, and the rotten harness was pieced together with pack-thread. His servant, Grumio, was equipped in the same fashion, all odds and ends, a linen stocking on one leg and a woollen one on the other, gartered with red and blue list; an old hat with a tattered rag of a feather--in fact, he was a perfect guy in dress, not like a Christian foot-boy or a gentleman’s lackey. Katharine had already started for the church, when Petruchio came rushing in, demanding his bride. He declined to give any explanation of his delay, and when Baptista and the other gentlemen begged him to put on more becoming wedding garments, he flatly refused. Kate was to be married to him, and not to his clothes, he declared, and off he hurried to the church.
There he behaved in such a strange, mad fashion that the guests were scandalised, and the bride was perfectly terrified. He cuffed the clergyman who was marrying them, called for a glass of wine, drank it noisily, and then threw the dregs in the old sexton’s face, giving as his only reason that his beard seemed to him thin and hungry. When they got back to the house after the wedding, things went no better. Baptista had prepared a great feast in honour of the occasion, but Petruchio refused to stay and share it, and announced that he must depart at once. Entreaties were of no avail, and even Katharine was refused when she joined her voice to the others. “Nay, then, do what you like,” she cried indignantly; “_I_ will not go to-day--no, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; you had better be moving before your boots grow old. As for me, I shall not go till I please myself. A nice surly husband you are likely to prove, if this is the way you begin.” “O Kate, content thee; prithee, do not be angry.” “I _will_ be angry. Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner. I see a woman may be made a fool if she has not spirit to resist.”
“They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command,” said Petruchio. “Obey the bride, you that attend on her; go to the feast, revel, be mad and merry--or go hang yourselves! But as for my bonny Kate, she must go with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels, my everything; and here she stands, touch her whoever dare! Fear not, sweet wife, they shall not touch thee, Kate!” And, making belief that they were beset with thieves, Petruchio shouted to his man-servant Grumio to come and help rescue his mistress, and so dragged Katharine reluctantly away. The wedding journey was unpleasant. Katharine’s horse fell with her in one of the muddiest places, and Petruchio left her to struggle free by herself, while he belaboured Grumio heartily because her horse had stumbled. Katharine had to wade through the mire to pray for mercy for the man before her husband would leave off beating him. Arrived at his country house, Petruchio had all the other servants assembled, and then stormed at them roundly because nothing was right. Katharine had again to intercede, and she tried to point out they were not to blame; but the angry master would listen to no excuses. Supper was brought, but Petruchio pretended it was badly cooked, and threw the meat about all over the place, refusing to let his wife taste a morsel. She was now really hungry, and would gladly have eaten the food he threw away; but Petruchio intended that she should be much more hungry and submissive before he allowed her anything to eat. She was also very tired, but he took care she should get no sleep that night; he tossed about the furniture in the room, finding fault with everything; and all this was done with the pretence that it was out of loving care for her own comfort.
By the following day Katharine felt almost famished. She implored Grumio to go and fetch her something to eat; she did not mind what it was so long as it was wholesome food. The man tantalized her for some time by suggesting one dish after another, any one of which she would gladly have accepted, and finally ended by saying impertinently he could fetch her some mustard without any beef. At that moment Petruchio entered, bringing some meat which he said he had himself prepared for her. “I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then, you do not like it, and all my pains are of no use. Here, take away this dish.” “I pray you let it stand,” said Katharine. “The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine be before you touch the meat,” said Petruchio. “I thank you, sir,” Katharine compelled her proud lips to murmur, for, indeed, she was nearly starving, and could not endure to see the food carried away untouched. “Now, my honey love,” continued Petruchio, who was always most affectionate in his speech, and pretended that everything he did was out of devotion to his wife, “we will return to your father’s house, decked out as bravely as the best, in gay apparel;” and, scarcely allowing her a moment in which to snatch a morsel of food, he ordered in the tailor and haberdasher, who had been preparing some fine new clothes.
But, as usual, nothing pleased him. “Here is the cap your worship bespoke,” said the haberdasher. “Why, this was moulded on a porringer, a velvet dish!” exclaimed Petruchio, with an air of disgust. “It’s a cockle or a walnut-shell--a toy, a baby’s cap! Away with it! Come, let me have a bigger.” “I’ll have no bigger,” declared Katharine. “This suits the present style, and gentlewomen wear such caps as these.” “When you are gentle, you shall have one too, and not till then,” said Petruchio, in rather a meaning voice. Katharine’s old spirit blazed up again at this rebuke, but the only notice Petruchio took of her angry words was to pretend to think she was agreeing with him in his abuse of the cap. Then he ordered the tailor to produce the gown. “O heavens! what silly style of stuff is here?” he cried in horror. “What’s this? A sleeve? It’s like a demi-cannon! What, up and down, carved like an apple-tart? Here’s snip and nip, and cut, and slish and slash, like a censer in a barber’s shop. Why, what in the name of evil, tailor, do you call this?” “You bade me make it well and properly, according to the fashion and the time,” said the tailor. “Marry, so I did, but, if you remember, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Come, be off; I’ll none of it. Hence, make the best of it you can.”
“I never saw a better-fashioned gown,” said Katharine, “more quaint, more pleasing, nor more praiseworthy. I suppose you mean to make a puppet of me.” “Why, true, he means to make a puppet of you,” said Petruchio, wilfully mistaking to whom she spoke. “She says your worship means to make a puppet of her,” explained the tailor. But Petruchio would listen to no reason or argument, and sent the tailor away in the most peremptory manner, though privately the man was told he would be paid for the gown, and that he was not to be offended at Petruchio’s hasty words. “Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s house even in this honest, mean raiment,” said Petruchio. “After all, fine clothes are of no importance. Is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful? Oh no, good Kate; neither are you any the worse for this mean array. If you feel ashamed about it, lay the blame on me; and so, be cheerful. Come, we will go at once to feast and amuse ourselves at your father’s house. Let me see: I think it is now about seven o’clock; we shall easily get there by dinner-time.” Katharine looked at her husband in astonishment; and well she might, for it was already the middle of the day.
It may be remembered that, when Katharine’s father ordered his younger daughter Bianca to keep in seclusion till a husband had been found for Katharine, he had provided schoolmasters to divert her tedious hours. Two of her suitors had contrived to get into the house under the guise of masters of music and poetry, and one of them--Lucentio--she presently married, while the other--Hortensio--found consolation in a wealthy widow. To the wedding feast came Petruchio and Katharine, Hortensio and his wife, with many other guests, and during the meal a rather hot discussion sprang up as to the amiability of some of the ladies present. Petruchio remarked that his friend Hortensio was afraid of his wife, whereupon that lady retorted that he who is giddy thinks the world goes round, meaning by this that Petruchio was afraid of his own wife. Katharine was indignant at this, and even the gentle Bianca plunged rather sharply into the argument. After the ladies had retired from table the gentlemen still continued the discussion. Petruchio said the jest had glanced away from him, and had probably hurt Lucentio and Hortensio worse. “Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,” said Baptista, “I think you have the veriest shrew of all.” “Well, I say no,” said Petruchio. “So to make sure, let each one of us send to his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at once when he sends for her, shall win the wager which we will propose.”
“Content,” said Hortensio. “What is the wager?” “Twenty crowns,” suggested Lucentio. “Twenty crowns!” cried Petruchio. “I’d venture as much on my hawk or my hound, but twenty times as much on my wife.” “A hundred, then,” said Lucentio. “A match! It’s done,” said Petruchio. “Who shall begin?” asked Hortensio. “I will,” said Lucentio. So a message was first sent to Bianca. But she sent back word that she was busy and could not come. “How? She is busy and she cannot come! Is that an answer?” said Petruchio mockingly. “Ay, and a kind one too,” said one of the guests. “Pray heaven, sir, your wife do not send you a worse.” “I hope, better,” replied Petruchio. “Signor Biondello, go and entreat my wife to come to me forthwith,” said Hortensio. “O, ho! _entreat_ her!” laughed Petruchio. “Nay, then, she must needs come.” “I am afraid, sir, do what you can, yours will not be entreated,” retorted Hortensio. Then, as the messenger returned, “Now, where’s my wife?” “She says you have some goodly jest in hand; she will not come. She bids you go to her.” “Worse and worse, ‘she will not come!’” said Petruchio. “Intolerable, not to be endured! Grumio, go to your mistress: say I command her to come to me.” “I know her answer,” said Hortensio. “What?” “She will not come.”
Ideas discussed in this chapter
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.