As You Like It

What’s going on, Rosalind? Cupid have mercy! You won’t utter a single word?

I don’t even have one to throw at a dog.

No, your words are too precious to be wasted on dogs. Throw some of your words at me. Come on, throw your words at me like you would throw stones at a dog.

Then there would be two cousins lying sick in bed: one hurt by reasons and the other gone crazy without any.

Is all of this about your father?

No, some of it is about my child’s father. Oh, this working-day world is full of thorns!

They’re only burrs, cousin, thrown at you because you took a holiday from conventional behavior. If we walk on the well-worn paths, they won’t get caught in our petticoats.

Those burrs I could shake off my clothing, but these are in my heart.

Cough them up.

I’d try it, if I could cry “hem” and have him.

Come on, take control of your feelings.

But they’re siding with a better wrestler than myself.

Oh, that’s a good wish! You’ll fight with him eventually, and fall. But let’s put these jokes aside for a moment, and speak earnestly. Is it possible that you could have fallen in love with Orlando, Sir Rowland’s youngest son, this suddenly?

The duke, my father, loved his father very much.

Does that necessarily mean you should love his son? By that kind of logic, I should hate Orlando, since my father hates his father. But I don’t hate Orlando.

No, please don’t hate him—for my sake.

Why shouldn’t I? Doesn’t he deserve it?

Let me love him because he deserves it, and you can love him because I do. Look, here comes the duke.

He looks angry.

Madam, hurry as fast as you can get out of my court.

Me, uncle?

You, niece. In ten days time, if you’re found within twenty miles of the court, you’ll die for it.

Please, your Grace, tell me what crime I have committed. If I know my own thoughts and desires, and I’m not dreaming or crazy—which I’m sure I’m not—then, dear uncle, I’ve never had so much as a half-formed thought that would have offended you.

All traitors protest like this. If they could purge their guilt simply by saying that they were innocent, they’d all be as innocent as God Himself. I don’t trust you. Enough said.

But your mistrust alone can’t make me a traitor—on what basis do you suspect me?

You are your father’s daughter. That’s enough.

I was his daughter when your Highness took my father’s dukedom. I was his daughter when you banished him. Treason is not inherited, my lord. But even if we did inherit it from our family, what does that have to do with me? My father wasn’t a traitor. So, please, my lord, don’t assume that I’m treacherous just because I’m poor, with no titles to my name.

Dear master, listen to me.

Yes, Celia, we kept her here for your sake. Otherwise, she would have been banished with her father.

At that time, I didn’t beg you to keep her here; you wanted her here, and you felt guilty. I was too young at the time to appreciate her value, but now I know her. If she’s a traitor, why then, so am I. We have always slept together, woken up together, learned, played, and eaten together. Wherever we went, we went together and inseparable.

She’s too devious for you. Her smoothness, her silence, and her patient suffering appeal to the people, and they pity her. You’re a fool. She’s robbing you of the attention you deserve. You will seem even brighter and more virtuous when she’s out of the picture. So be quiet. The sentence I’ve passed down on her is firm and unshakeable. She is banished.

Then lay that sentence on me too, my lord. I cannot live without her.

You are a fool.—You, niece, prepare to leave. On my honor and by my word, if you outstay the ten days, you will die.

Oh, my poor Rosalind, where will you go? Do you want to exchange fathers? I’ll give you mine. I insist, don’t be more distressed than I am.

I have more reason to be distressed.

No you haven’t, cousin. Please, be cheerful. Don’t you realize the duke has also banished me, his daughter?

No, he hasn’t.

Oh, he hasn’t? Well, then, you don’t have the affection that would teach you that you and I are one. Will we be separated? Should we part, sweet girl? No. Let my father find another heir. So, help me plan how we’ll escape, where we’ll go, and what we’ll take with us. Don’t even try to take this all upon yourself, bearing your grief alone and leaving me out. I swear by the heavens, which have grown pale in sympathy with us, I’m going with you, whatever you say.

But where will we go?

To the Forest of Arden, to find your father.

But what danger we’ll put ourselves in, two young, innocent women traveling so far! Fresh beauty attracts thugs and thieves even more than money.

I’ll put on some poor and ragged clothes and smudge my face with dirt. You do the same, and we’ll be able to travel without attracting any attackers’ attention.

Wouldn’t it be better—since I’m unusually tall for a woman—to dress myself like a man? I’ll wear a big sword in my belt, carry a boar-spear in my hand, and hide all my womanish fear in my heart. We’ll maintain a swaggering, warrior look, like so many cowardly men, whose manner has nothing to do with what they’re feeling.

What should I call you when you’re a man?

I’ll take no lesser name than that of Jove’s own servant. So call me Ganymede. And what will you be called?

Something that refers to my current state. Instead of Celia, call me Aliena.

Cousin, what if we brought that clownish fool of your father’s court, Touchstone? Wouldn’t he be a comfort to us in our travels?

He’d walk the whole wide world with me. Leave me alone to go convince him. Let’s go gather our jewels and money. We’ll figure out the best time and safest route to avoid being found out by my father’s guards, whom he’ll send out as soon as he discovers I’ve gone. Now, we go contentedly to freedom—not banishment.