As You Like It

Hang there on this tree, you lines of poetry, and bear witness to my love. And you, goddess of the moon, queen of the night—with your chaste eye, from your pale home up above—watch your huntress, who has the power to control my life. Oh, Rosalind, these trees will be my books—I’ll write my thoughts down on their bark. That way, everyone who passes through this forest will find your virtues everywhere. Run, run, Orlando, on every tree carve praises of her beauty, her virtue, and her inexpressibility.

And how are you liking the shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?

Well, in and of itself, it is a good life, but given that it’s a shepherd’s life, it’s worthless. In the fact that it’s solitary, I enjoy it very much; but in the sense that it’s private, it’s terrible. Now, I’m very pleased with it being outdoors, but in its not being at the court, it is boring. Being a simple life, it suits me very well, but being a life without plenty, it doesn’t suit me at all. Are you any kind of philosopher yourself, shepherd?

Only in that I know that the sicker one gets, the worse one feels, and that the man who lacks money, employment, and happiness is without three good friends. I know that rain makes things wet and fire burns things. I know that a good pasture makes sheep fat, that the main cause of night is the absence of sun, and that the man who isn’t smart by nature and hasn’t learned anything from his schooling will complain of his lack of good manners, or he comes from very dull parents indeed.

You’re a natural-born philosopher! Were you ever at court, shepherd?

Honestly, no.

Then you are damned.

I hope not.

Yep, you’re damned like a roasted egg: all on one side.

I’m damned for not having been at court? Explain.

Well, if you were never at court, you were never exposed to good manners; if you never witnessed good manners, your manners must be wicked; wickedness is a sin, and committing sins leads to damnation. You are in a perilous state, shepherd.

Not at all, Touchstone. The good manners of the court look as silly in the country as country behavior is laughable at the court. You told me that you don’t salute at the court but kiss hands. Now, if courtiers were shepherds, that kind of courtesy would be unclean.

Give a quick example. Come, explain.

Why, because we’re always handling our ewes, and their fleece, as you know, is greasy.

What, don’t courtiers’ hands sweat? And isn’t a sheep’s grease as wholesome as a man’s sweat? That’s a poor example. A better example—come on.

Besides, our hands are hard and calloused.

Then your lips will feel them more quickly. Shallow thinking, yet again. Come on.

Our hands are often covered in tar, from performing surgery on our sheep.Would you have us country folks kiss each other’s tarred hands? Courtiers’ hands are perfumed.

You shallow thinker! You worthless man! You are about as much of a thinker as worm’s meat is a nice steak. Learn from the wise, and comprehend: the courtier’s perfume is made from cat discharge—much more disgusting than tar. Fix your example, shepherd.

Your wit is too courtly for me. I’ll rest now.

You’re going to rest while you’re still damned? God help you, foolish man. Pray God does some surgery on you: you need to be fixed.

Sir, I’m a true, simple laborer: I earn what I eat, get what I wear, hate no man, envy no man’s happiness, am happy for other men’s good fortune and satisfied with my own bad fortune, and the source of my greatest pride is watching my ewes graze and my lambs feed.

That’s another sin arising from your ignorance: you bring ewes and rams together and make your living by their copulation. You act as a pimp to a young ewe by forcing her to have sex with a crooked-headed, horny old ram—a totally unreasonable match. If you’re not damned for that, then the devil must be keeping shepherds out of hell; I can’t see how else you can hope to escape.

Here comes young Mr. Ganymede, my new mistress’ brother.

(reading, as Ganymede) From the far east to the west Indies

There is no jewel like Rosalind.

Her worth is carried on the wind

And it blows throughout the world, carrying the name of Rosalind.

All the most beautiful paintings

Are black when compared to Rosalind.

Don’t think of any beauty

But the beauty of Rosalind.

I could rhyme like that for eight years in a row, excepting meal times and sleeping hours. That awful, plodding rhyme sounded like a row of dairy women stomping off to market.

Oh, stop, fool.

Let me try:

If there’s a buck who needs a doe

Tell him Rosalind will do.

A cat in heat will look for a mate,

And Rosalind certainly will too.

Winter garments need to be filled with something,

And so does skinny Rosalind.

After you harvest, you have to sheaf and bind

So throw ripe Rosalind on the harvest cart.

The sweetest nut has the sourest rind

And Rosalind is that kind of nut.

The man who finds the sweetest rose

Will be pricked by it, and by Rosalind.

This is exactly the false way that verses gallop along. Why bother with them?

Quiet, you stupid fool. I found them on a tree.

Well, the tree bears rotten fruit.

I’ll graft you onto that tree, and when I do I’ll be grafting onto it a medlar. The fruit the tree bears will be the earliest to ripen in the country because, God knows, you’ll be rotten before you’re half-ripe, which is how medlars are.

All right, you’ve had your say, but we’ll let the forest judge whether or not you spoke wisely.

Quiet! Here comes my cousin, reading something; step aside.

(reading, as Aliena) Why should this place be a desert

Just because there are no people in it? No,

I’ll hang these poems on every tree,

And they will voice the thoughts of a city.

Some will be about how man’s brief life

is spent in wandering,

his entire life contained

in the width of an open hand.

Some poems will be about betrayals

Committed by friends.

But on the prettiest branches

Or at the end of every sentence

I’ll write “Rosalinda,”

Teaching everyone who can read

that the essence of every spirit

Is contained in this one woman.

Heaven commanded Nature

To fill her one body

With all the graces that women contain.

Nature took

Helen’s beautiful face, but not her fickle heart;

Cleopatra’s majesty,

The best of Atalanta,

And unhappy Lucretia’s modesty.

So, by heaven’s decree, Rosalind

Was composed

Of different faces, eyes, and hearts,

so that she might have the most prized touches of all.

Heaven wanted Rosalind to have these gifts

And me to live and die as her slave.

Oh, Lord—what tedious sayings about love have you been wearing out your congregation with? Shouldn’t you have warned, “Be patient, good people”?

What are you saying?—Shoo, Shepherd, go a little ways away.—Go with him, Touchstone.

Come on, shepherd, let’s make an honorable retreat, though not with all the trappings of a full army; just with a shepherd’s pouch and the stuff he puts in it.

Were you listening to these verses?

Oh yes, I heard them all, and more, too. Some of those lines had more feet than the verses could bear.

That’s not a problem: the feet can bear the verses.

Sure, but these feet were lame, and couldn’t have stood up without the support of the verses. They stood lamely in the verse.

But did you listen to all that poetry without even wondering about what your name is doing on all these trees?

I was working through my wonder when you arrived. Look at what I found on a palm tree. I haven’t been rhymed about like this since my past life, when I was an Irish rat, but I can hardly remember that.

Do you know who wrote these?

Was it a man?

And he had a chain that once belonged to you hanging around his neck. Are you blushing?

Please, who?

Oh God, God! It’s difficult to bring two friends together, but even mountains can be moved together by earthquakes.

No, who are you talking about?

Is it possible?

No, I’m begging you now, tell me who it is.

Oh, this is wonderful, wonderful—just wonderful wonderful! And another wonderful, and beyond-my-ability-to-express wonderful!

Good grief, do you think that just because I’m dressed like a man, I have a man’s patience? Every second you delay is as long and dull as a journey to South Seas. I’m begging you, tell me who it is quickly, and speak fast. I wish you could just stammer this hidden man out of your mouth like wine out of a narrow-necked bottle: either too much at once or none at all. I’m begging you, take the cork out of your mouth so I can drink the news.

So you want to put a man in your belly.

Did God make him? I mean, what sort of man is he? Is he enough of a man to wear a hat and grow a beard ?

No, he has only a little beard.

Well, eventually God will send him some more hair, if he thanks Him. I’ll wait till his beard grows in, if you’ll just hurry up and tell me what chin that beard is on.

It’s Orlando, who triumphed over both the wrestler and you in the same instant.

Damn you for mocking me. Speak seriously and honestly.

Really, cousin, it’s him.

Orlando?

Orlando.

Oh no! What am I going to do in my man’s clothing? What did he do when you saw him? What did he say? How did he look? Where did he go? What brings him here? Did he ask about me? Where is he staying? How did he say good-bye? And when will you see him again? Answer me in a word.

You’d better get me Gargantua’smouth first. The word’s too big for any mouth nowadays. Answering “yes” and “no” to all those questions would be harder than answering a catechism.

But does he know that I’m here in the forest and dressed in men’s clothing? Does he look as bright and handsome as the day we saw him wrestling?

It’s easier to count specks than to answer a lover’s millions of questions. But taste my story, and relish it by paying attention. I found Orlando under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

That tree could be called God’s tree, since it drops such wonderful fruit.

Let me talk, good lady.

Go on.

He lay there, stretched out like a wounded knight.

Though that must have been a pitiful sight, the ground looked beautiful.

Cry, “whoa!” to your tongue, please. It’s leaping about like a frisky horse. He was dressed like a hunter.

Oh, that’s ominous! He has come to kill my heart.

I’d like to sing my song solo. You’re making me go off-key.

Don’t you know that I’m a woman? Whatever I think, I have to say. Sweetheart, go on.

You’ve made me lose the tune. Quiet! Isn’t that him heading this way?

That’s him. Let’s slink off, and watch him from a hiding place.

Thanks for your company but, really, I would have preferred being alone.

Me too, but still, for the sake of good manners, I’ll say thanks for your company.

Goodbye. Let’s meet as little as we can.

I also hope that we can be better strangers.

Please don’t ruin any more trees by carving love poems on their barks.

Please don’t ruin any more of my poems by reading them so badly.

Your love’s name is Rosalind?

Yes, that’s it.

I don’t like her name.

They weren’t looking to please you when they christened her.

How tall is she?

Just as tall as my heart.

You’re sure full of smooth answers. Are you friendly with goldsmiths’ wives, and memorized your little speeches off of their rings?

No, but I can answer you just like those painted cloths, where I suppose you memorized all your questions.

You have a quick wit; I think it must be made out of Atalanta’s heels. Why don’t you sit down with me? The two of us can complain about our mistress—the world—and all our miseries.

I won’t blame anyone in this world but myself, whose faults I’m most familiar with.

Your worst fault is being in love.

Well, it’s a fault I wouldn’t trade for your best virtue. I’m tired of you.

Well, I was looking for a fool when I found you, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

He’s drowned in the brook: look in, and you’ll see him.

There I’ll see only myself.

Which is either a fool or a nothing.

I’m not going to waste any more time with you. Goodbye, good Mr. Love.

I’m glad to see you go. Adieu, good Mr. Depression.

(speaking so that only CELIAcan hear) I’m going to talk to him like I’m an insolent boy, so I can play a trick on him.—Can you hear me, forester?

Very well. What do you want?

(as Ganymede) Please, what’s the hour?

You should ask me what time of day it is, instead. There’s no clock here in the forest.

Then there must be no lovers in the forest, either, because they’re as good as a clock, marking the lazy foot of time with a sigh every minute and a groan every hour.

Why didn’t you say “the swift steps” of time instead of the “lazy foot”? Wouldn’t that have been just as appropriate?

No, not at all, sir. Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.

Okay, who does it trot for?

Well, it trots for a young woman between the time she gets engaged and the time she marries: the time that’s passed may only be a week, but it always feels like seven years.

Who does time amble for?

For a priest who doesn’t know his Latin or a rich man who is free from the gout. The one sleeps easily because he isn’t up late studying and the other lives merrily because he’s free from pain. The first lacks the burden of intense, exhausting study, and the second is spared the burden of heavy, exhausting poverty. Time ambles for both men.

Who does it gallop for?

For a thief on his way to the gallows. Such a man walks as slowly as possible and, even so, gets there too soon.

Who does it stand still for?

For lawyers on vacation, because they sleep their holidays away, with no sense of how time moves.

Where do you live, pretty young man?

With this shepherdess, my sister, on the outskirts of the forest. We live like fringe on the edges of a petticoat.

Were you born here?

Just like the rabbit, who lives where she is born.

Your speech is more refined than I would expect in such a remote place as this.

Many people have told me so. Actually, an old religious uncle of mine taught me how to speak, and he was brought up in the city. He knew too much about courtship, because he fell in love back there, and when he came here he constantly lectured against it. Thank God I’m not a woman and afflicted with all the giddiness that troubles that entire sex.

What were the primary evils he claimed women were guilty of?

There were no primary ones. All of women’s faults are as alike as one half-pence is to another. Each of a woman’s faults seems monstrous until you’re presented with the next one, which is just as bad.

Please, tell me some of them.

No, I won’t give my medicine away to anyone but the sick. There’s a man haunting this forest who abuses the trees by carving “Rosalind” on their barks. He hangs his odes on the hawthorns and his elegies on the brambles—each of these poems praising to the heavens one “Rosalind.” Now if I could find this man, this dream-catcher, I would give him some good advice, because he is truly love-sick.

Well, I’m the man you’re speaking of. Please, tell me your cure.

But you don’t have any of the symptoms my uncle told me about. He taught me how to recognize a man in love, and you’re not a prisoner of love, I’m sure.

What did he say the symptoms were?

A thin face, which you don’t have; a sleepless, sunken eye, which you don’t have; an irritable temper, which you don’t have; a neglected beard, which you don’t have—but that might not be so telling, since you don’t have much beard anyway. Your stockings should be falling down around your ankles, your hat flying off your head, your sleeves unbuttoned, your shoes untied, and everything about you demonstrating carelessness and misery. But you’re no such man. You’re so neat and well put-together that you look like you love yourself more than anyone else.

Young boy, I wish I could make you believe that I’m in love.

Make me believe it? You might as well make the one you love believe it, which she’s more likely to do than admit that she does—that’s one of the ways that women fool their own consciences. But really, are you the one who’s been hanging on the trees those poems that speak so admiringly of Rosalind?

I swear to you by Rosalind’s own pretty hand that I am that unfortunate man.

Are you really as in love as your poems declare?

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much I love her.

Love is merely a form of insanity, and I tell you, lovers deserve the nuthouse just like crazy people do. The only reason they don’t get punished and cured is that the disease is so commonplace that the nuthouse nurses are usually suffering from it, too. But I promise it can be cured with some guidance.

Have you ever cured anyone this way before?

Yes, one, and this is how I did it. He had to imagine that I was the girl he was in love with. I made him woo me every day. When he did, being the changeable boy I am, I’d mope, act effeminate, switch moods, long for him, like him, be proud and standoffish, be dreamy, full of mannerisms, unpredictable, full of tears and then smiles; be passionate about everything, then nothing. Most boys and women act just like this. I’d like him one minute and despise him the next; cry for him, then spit at him—until finally I drove love out and anger in. He abandoned the world, and hid himself away in a monastery. So I cured him, and I’ll cure you just the same, leaving you as clean as a sheep’s heart, without one spot of love in you.

I don’t want to be cured, boy.

I could cure you, if you just called me Rosalind and came by my cottage every day to woo me.

By my faith in love, I will, then. Tell me where you live.

Come with me, I’ll show you, and along the way, you can tell me where you live. Will you come?

Wholeheartedly, good young man.

No, you have to call me Rosalind.—Sister, you’re coming?