As You Like It

What do you say now? Isn’t it past two o’clock? And I see a lot of Orlando here.

I’m telling you, he’s taken his bow and arrows and, with a pure love and a worried brain, has gone to take a nap.

Look who’s coming.

(to ROSALIND) I’ve been sent to find you, young man. My lovely Phoebe told me to give you this letter. I don’t know what’s in it, but guessing from her stern expression and her wasp-like demeanor as she was writing it, I bet she’s angry. You’ll have to excuse me, as I’m just the messenger.

(reading the letter as Ganymede) Patience herself would be shocked by this letter and become feisty. If I can take this, I can take anything. She says I’m not handsome and have no manners. She says I’m arrogant and that she couldn’t love me even if men were as rare as the mythical phoenix. Honestly! I’m not hunting after her love. Why would she write this way to me? Tell the truth, shepherd: you wrote this letter.

No, I swear, I don’t even know what’s in it. Phoebe wrote it.

Come on, you’re a fool, and driven to extreme measures by love. I saw her hands: they were as rough as leather and just as brown; I thought she was wearing old gloves, but they were, in fact, her hands. These are the hands of a hard-working housewife, but that’s not the point. The point is that she didn’t write this letter. These are a man’s words, and his handwriting.

I’m telling you, it’s hers.

Well, it’s written in a boisterous and rude style—someone is up for a fight. Why, she challenges me like a Muslim would challenge a Christian. No, a woman’s gentle brain could never have come up with such crude expressions and even harsher meanings. Do you want to hear what she says?

If you want to read it, as I haven’t heard it yet, though I’ve heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.

She’s Phoebe-ing me. Listen to what the tyrant says. (reading) “Are you a god disguised as a shepherd, that you know so expertly how to burn my heart?” Now, honestly, would a woman rant like this?

You call that ranting?

(reading) “Why have you set aside your divine nature just to battle with a woman’s affections?” Did you ever hear such ranting? (reading) “When other men have wooed me, they didn’t hurt me.” In other words, she thinks I’m not a man, but an animal. (reading) “If the scorn in your bright eyes can make me fall so deeply in love, can you imagine what power they might have if they looked at me more kindly? While you sneered at me, I loved you. Consider what effect kind prayers might have. The man that brings you this letter doesn’t know how I feel about you. Send me your answer via him. Tell me via him whether you will accept my faithful offer of myself and all that I can do. Or tell him you will deny my love, in which case I’ll figure out how to die.”

You call this sneering?

(as Aliena) Oh, you poor shepherd!

Why do you pity him? He doesn’t deserve any pity. (to SILVIUS) Why would you love such a woman? So she can turn you into an instrument and play lousy tunes on you? It’s unbearable. Well, go back to her—I can tell she’s turned you into a perfectly tame snake—and tell her this: if she loves me, I command her to love you. And if she won’t love you, tell her I’ll never take her unless you beg me to. If you’re a true lover, get out of here. No, don’t say another word, because here comes more company.

Good morning, pretty ones. Tell me, if you know: where in this forest is there a shepherd’s cottage surrounded by olive trees?

West of here, in the valley next to us. Passing by on your right, there is a row of willows. Follow them straight to the cottage. But right now, the house is keeping to itself— there’s no one home.

I think I recognize you from a description I was given of your clothing and age: “The boy is pretty and feminine, and carries himself like a blooming young woman. The woman is short, with a darker complexion than her brother.” Aren’t you the owners of the house I was just asking about?

Since you asked, I suppose it’s not bragging to say that we are.

Orlando sends his regards to you both, and he sends this bloody handkerchief to the boy he calls “his Rosalind.” Is that you?

It is. What does this mean?

It’s a story that involves some shame on my part. It’s about who I am, and how, why, and where this handkerchief was stained.

Please, tell us.

When young Orlando left you last, he promised to return within an hour. He was pacing through the forest, thinking bittersweet thoughts of love, and listen what happened! He looked to the side, and pay attention to what he saw then: under an oak tree—whose lower branches were mossy with age and top branches ancient and brittle—he saw a wretched beggar, with overgrown hair and beard, asleep on his back. A green and gold snake had wound itself around this man’s neck and was slowly making its way toward the man’s mouth. However, when it saw Orlando, it unwound itself and slunk away into a bush. But there happened to be a lioness crouching under that bush. Her cubs had nursed from her until she was dry, so she was ravenously hungry, and she was lying with her head on the ground, watching the man as cats do and waiting to see if he would wake up—a lion won’t prey on anything that seems dead. Seeing the lioness, Orlando approached the sleeping man. He discovered that the man was his older brother.

Oh, I’ve heard him talk about that brother, and he described him as the most inhumane man alive.

And he was right. I know exactly how inhumane he was.

But, back to Orlando, did he leave his brother there, to be food for the hungry mother-lioness?

He turned away twice and almost left him there. But his kindness was nobler than even his desire for revenge, his natural goodness was stronger than his need to give his brother what he deserved. He fought the lioness and quickly defeated her. I woke from my miserable sleep when I heard the noise of their struggle.

Are you his brother?

Was it you that he rescued?

Was it you that was always plotting to kill him?

That was me, but it’s not me— I’m not ashamed to tell you what I once was, since I’m so happy to have since converted.

But what about the bloody handkerchief?

I’ll get there. When we had told each other our entire stories and cried, and I’d told him how I’d ended up in in the forest—well, he brought me to the duke, who gave me fresh clothing and hospitality, and put me in my brother’s care. My brother immediately took me to his cave, where he took off his clothing and there on his arm was a wound where the lioness had attacked him, ripping off some of his flesh. The wound had been bleeding the entire time. So, now he fainted, and as he fainted, he called out, “Rosalind!” Quickly, I resuscitated him and bound up his wound. After a brief time—as he is a strong, brave man— he sent me out to find you, even though I’m a stranger to you. He wanted me to tell you this story and beg your forgiveness for his having broken his promise. He wanted me to give this handkerchief, soaked in his blood, to the boy that he jokingly calls his Rosalind.

Oh no! Ganymede! Ganymede, sweetheart?

Many people faint when they see blood.

There’s more to it than that.—Ganymede!

Look, he’s recovering.

I want to go home.

We’ll take you there. Please, will you take his arm?

Buck up, boy! You’re a man? You don’t have a man’s courage.

It’s true, I confess. Oh, sir, someone would think I was a good fake. Please tell your brother what a convincing show I put on. Whoo-hoo!

That was no show. Your cheeks are too flushed for me to believe that was a fake faint.

Fake, I’m telling you.

Well, then, be brave and pretend to be a man.

That’s what I’m doing. But honestly, I should have been a woman.

Come on, you keep getting paler. Please, let’s go home. Sir, please come with us.

I’ll do that, because I have to tell my brother how you forgave him, Rosalind.

I’ll think of something. But please, tell him how well I faked a faint. Will you come with us?