As You Like It

Please, Rosalind, my sweet cousin—be happy.

Dear Celia—I already look much happier than I feel, but you want me to look even happier? Unless you can also teach me how to forget my banished father, you shouldn’t try to teach me how to be happy.

Well, by this I can see that you don’t love me as much as I love you. If your father had banished my father, I could have learned to love your father as my own, as long as I still had you. You’d do the same, if your love for me were as true as mine for you.

Well, I’ll just forget the difficulties of my situation, in order to focus on the happiness of yours.

You know I’m my father’s only child, and he isn’t likely to have another. And when he dies, you will inherit his fortune—because whatever he took from your father by force, I will return to you as affection. I swear I will, and if I ever break my promise let me turn into a monster. So please, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be happy.

From now on I will, cousin, and I’ll think of all kinds of games for us. Let me see—what do you think about falling in love?

Yes, please do, so we can have a good laugh about it. But don’t fall in love for real, and don’t take the game too far. You want to get out of it easily, and with your honor intact.

Well, then, what should we do for fun instead?

Let’s go find that hussy, Fortune, and and mock her till she starts distributing her gifts more equally.

I wish we could do that, because Fortune gives all of her gifts to the wrong people, and she especially gets things wrong where women are concerned.

It’s true: the women she makes beautiful she also makes slutty, and the women she makes pure and virginal she also makes ugly.

No, you’re getting Fortune and Nature mixed up: Nature determines how we’re made, and Fortune decides what happens to us.

Oh, really? Well, when Nature makes a person beautiful, can’t Fortune make her fall into a fire, thereby making her ugly after all? And even though Nature has given us the wit to have this argument, hasn’t Fortune sent this fool here to stop us?

Yes, and now Fortune is playing a nasty trick on Nature: she’s breaking up a show of wit between two naturally witty women with the arrival of a natural fool.

Well, maybe this is Nature’s work after all. Maybe Nature sensed that we’re not smart enough to be having this high-flown discussion about goddesses, so she sent us this fool to use as a mental whetstone. After all, smart peoples’ wits are always sharpened by the presence of a fool. What’s up, you wit? Where are you wandering off to?

Mistress, you have to go see your father.

Did they make you the messenger?

No, by my honor, but they told me to come get you.

Where’d you learn a phrase like, “by my honor,” fool?

From a certain knight who swore on his honor that the pancakes he was eating were good, and that the mustard on top of them—he swore on his honor—was bad. Now, I’ll swear to the opposite—that the pancakes were rotten, and the mustard was fine—but even so, the knight wasn’t lying.

And how, out of your great heap of knowledge, will you manage to prove that?

Yes, please; unleash your wisdom.

Watch me: stroke your chins and swear by your beards that I am a knave.

By our beards (if we had them), you are a knave.

And I swear by my wickedness (if I had any) that I am a knave. But you can’t swear by what you don’t have—and this knight had no honor, or if he did, he swore it off before he ever saw those pancakes and that mustard.

Tell me, who is this knight?

A man old Frederick, your father, loves.

If he has my father’s love, then that’s enough honor for me. Enough of this. No more talk about my father; you’ll be whipped for slander one of these days.

It’s a pity that fools aren’t allowed to speak wisely about the foolish things that wise men do.

Honestly, you’re speaking the truth—ever since the fools were silenced, the foolishness of wise men has become all the more apparent. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

With his mouth full of news.

Which he’ll shove down our throats the way pigeons feed their young.

Then we’ll be stuffed with news.

Well that’s good. If we’re fattened up, we’ll be worth more. Hello, Monsieur Le Beau. What’s the news?

Fair princess, you’ve missed some good sport.

Sport? Of what color?

What color, madam? I don’t understand—how should I answer that?

However your wit and luck allow.

Or however the Destinies say you should.

Nicely done; you laid that on thick.

Well, if I don’t keep up my rank—

—you’ll lose your smell.

You’re confusing me, ladies. I was going to tell you all about a good wrestling match that’s going on, which you’re missing.

Tell us about this wrestling.

I’ll tell you about the beginning, and if you find that interesting you can see the end. The best is yet to come, and they’re going to perform it right here.

Well, we’ve missed the beginning; it’s dead and buried.

There comes an old man with his three sons—

It sounds like the beginning of an old folktale.

Three proper young men, all good looking and with great presence—

Right, and they wore proclamations around their necks, saying, “Be it known to all men by these presents—”

The eldest of the three brothers wrestled with Charles, the duke’s wrestler. Immediately, Charles threw the brother, breaking three of his ribs; it’s not likely he will survive. Charles did the same to the second brother, and the third. They’re lying over there, and the poor old man, their father, weeps so piteously over them that the whole audience has joined him in grieving.

Oh, dear!

But tell me, monsieur—what sport are the ladies missing?

Why, the one I just told you about.

Men must be getting wiser every day; that’s the first time I’ve heard that rib-breaking was appropriate entertainment for ladies.

Me too, I swear.

Doesn’t anyone else want to see this, and hear breath wheezing out from broken ribs? Does anyone else love rib breaking? Shall we go watch this wrestling, cousin?

You’re going to have to, if you stay here. This is the place they’re scheduled to wrestle, and they’re ready to go.

Yes, I see them coming. Let’s stay and watch.

Come on. Since the youth won’t be reasoned with, he’ll have to suffer for his stubbornness.

Is that the man?

That’s him, madam.

Alas, he is too young. Yet he seems capable.

What’s up, daughter and niece? Have you snuck over here to watch the wrestling?

Yes, my lord, if you give us permission.

You won’t enjoy it much, I can tell you, the odds are so against this young man. Because he’s so young, I’ve tried to discourage him, but he won’t listen. Talk to him, ladies. See if you can persuade him.

Call him over here, good Monsieur Le Beau.

Go ahead. I’ll make myself scarce.

Mister Challenger, the princess wants to speak to you.

I’ll wait on them with all respect and duty.

Young man, have you challenged Charles the Wrestler?

No, lovely princess. He is the general challenger. I have only come in—like the others have—to try to fight him with the strength of my youth.

Young gentleman, you are too bold for your age. You have seen the cruel proof of this man’s strength. If you took a good look at yourself, or if you thought about this more carefully, your fear would teach you to act more cautiously. We beg you, for your own sake, to respect your safety and give up.

Please, young sir. We’ll make sure your reputation isn’t hurt; we’ll take it upon ourselves to argue with the duke that the wrestling match should be called off.

I beg you not to think poorly of me—though I suppose anyone who could deny anything to such beautiful women deserves to be scorned. But please, send me good thoughts in this match. If I’m beaten, the shame is all mine, and I wasn’t in anyone’s good graces to begin with. If I’m killed, it will only be the death of a man who was willing to be dead. I won’t wrong any of my friends, because I don’t have any to mourn for me, and I won’t have wronged the world, because I don’t have anything in the world. In this world, I’m only taking up space. If I leave, maybe someone more worthy will fill it.

I wish I could give you the little strength that I have.

Mine too, to join hers.

Good luck. I hope to God I’m wrong about your chances.

I hope you get what you desire!

Come on, where’s the young show-off who’s so eager to lie with mother earth?

Ready, sir, but I have more modest ambitions.

You get only one round.

No, I’m sure your Grace won’t be able to persuade him to try a second round, even though you couldn’t dissuade him from trying the first.

You should mock me after you’ve beaten me, not before. Come on.

Hercules give you speed, young man!

I wish I were invisible, so I could grab that strong fellow by the leg.

Oh, what an excellent young man!

If I could shoot lightning bolts from my eyes, I can tell you who’d be on the ground.

No more, no more.

Oh, come on, your Grace—I’m barely out of breath.

How are you doing, Charles?

He can’t speak, my lord.

Carry him away. What is your name, young man?

Orlando, my lord, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.

I wish you were someone else’s son. The whole world thought your father was an honorable man, but he was always my enemy. Your victory would have pleased me more if you’d been someone else’s son. But good luck; you are a brave young man. I wish you had told me you had a different father.

If I were my father, cousin, would I do this?

I’m proud to be Sir Rowland’s son—his youngest son—and I would never change that, not even to be Frederick’s adopted heir.

My father loved Sir Rowland as much as he loved his own soul, and the rest of the world shared my father’s opinion. If I had known this young man was his son, I would have tried harder to convince him not to fight.

Gentle cousin, let’s go thank him and encourage him. My my father’s rude and envious behavior is like a knife through my heart. (to ORLANDO) Sir, you fought very well. If you live up to your potential in love as well, your wife will be a very happy woman.

(giving him a chain from her neck) Gentleman, wear this for me. I’m a woman who’s down on her luck, and I’d give more if I could. Shall we go, cousin?

Yes. Good luck, fair gentleman.

(to himself) Can’t I even say “thank you”? I left my brain back on the wrestling field. What’s left of me is a dummy, just a lifeless block.

He’s calling us back. My pride fell when my fortunes did; I’ll ask him what he wants.—Did you call us, sir? Sir, you wrestled well and conquered more than just your enemies.

Will you come on, cousin?

I’m coming. Farewell.

What is this passion that ties up my tongue? I can’t speak to her, even though she asked me to. Oh, poor Orlando, you’ve been overthrown! Either Charles or some prettier thing has mastered you.

Good sir, as a friend, I advise you to leave this place. Although you deserve praise, applause, and love, right now the duke misconstrues everything you’ve done. The duke is temperamental. I’m sure you can imagine what I mean without my having to spell it out.

Thank you, sir. Now please tell me this: which of the two ladies who were at the wrestling match is the duke’s daughter?

Neither one is his daughter, to judge from their good manners. But really, the smaller one is his daughter. The other is the daughter of the banished duke. Duke Frederick keeps her for his daughter’s sake; the love between the two of them is stronger than the bond between sisters. But I will tell you that lately the duke has been displeased with his niece, and for no other reason than that people praise her virtues and pity her for her father’s sake. I swear, one day the duke’s malice toward Rosalind will suddenly erupt. Goodbye, sir. Later, in a better world than this, I’d love to get to know you.

I’m indebted to you. Goodbye.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire—from a tyrant duke to a tyrant brother! But, oh, heavenly Rosalind!