The Comedy of Errors

Neither my husband nor the slave has returned, even though I sent the slave off running. Surely, Luciana, it’s already two o’clock.

Maybe some merchant at the marketplace invited him home for lunch. Sister, let’s eat and stop worrying. A man is master of his own freedom: time is his only master, and when the right moment comes along, he’ll come or go as he pleases. If this is so, be patient, sister.

Why should men be more free than women?

Because their business lies outside the home.

Listen, when I behave this way toward him, he hates it.

Oh, you should know that he’s the bridle to your will.

Only a mule would agree to that.

Why, too much freedom leads to woe. There’s nothing under heaven that doesn’t have its limits. The beasts on the earth, the fish in the sea, and the birds in the sky are all subject to the males of their species and under their control. Men, who are nearest to God, are the masters of all these creatures. And men—the lords of the wide world and the wild watery seas, gifted with intellectual sense and souls, greater than the fish and the birds—are the masters of women and their lords. Therefore, you should obey their wishes.

It’s this servantlike mentality that’s keeping you unmarried.

No, that’s not it—it’s because of what happens in the marriage bed.

But if you were married, you’d wield some influence.

Before I learn how to love, I’ll learn how to follow orders.

What if your husband strays elsewhere?

I’d endure it until he came home again.

Now that’s patience! No wonder she’s waiting to get married. It’s easy to preach meekness when you have no reason to act otherwise. When we’re faced with a wretched person, bruised and crying with hardship, we try to get them to shush up. And yet, if we were suffering the same kind of pain, we’d complain just as much—if not more! So you, who have no husband causing you problems, want to comfort me by preaching the virtue of feeble patience. But if you live to see yourself similarly denied your rights, this foolish patience will abandon you.

Well, I’ll get married one day, just to see. Here comes your servant—your husband must be coming soon.

Tell me, is your tardy master close at hand?

No; but he came at me with two hands—just ask my ears.

Did you talk to him? Do you know his plans?

Yes, yes, he told me his plans on my ears. Damn his hands—I could barely understand it.

Did he speak so ambiguously that you couldn’t get a feeling for what he meant?

No; he hit me very clearly and I felt his punches perfectly well. They were so dreadful, I could barely stand up under them.

But please, tell me: is he coming home? It seems he has taken great care to please his wife.

Why, mistress, my master is as angry as a bull with horns.

Horns? You bastard!

I don’t mean he’s cuckold mad. But he sure is angry. When I asked him to come home to lunch, he asked me for a thousand marks. “It’s lunchtime,” I said. “My gold,” he said. “The meat’s burning,” I said. “My gold,” he said. “Will you come home?” I said. “My gold,” he said. “Where’s the thousand marks I gave you, scoundrel?” “The pig,” I said, “is burned.” “My gold,” he said. “My mistress,” I said. “Damn your mistress! I don’t know your mistress, the hell with your mistress!”

Who said that?

My master said it. “I don’t know,” he said, “any house, wife, or mistress.” My message, which was supposed to be delivered with my mouth, ended up being carried back home by my shoulders. Because at the end of it all, that’s where he beat me.

Go back again, slave, and bring him home.

Go back again, to be beaten home again? For God’s sake, send somebody else.

Go back, slave, or I’ll knock you one across the head.

And he’ll add another knock across. With all these crosses, I’ll have a holy head.

Get out of here, you blathering peasant! Bring your master home.

Do I treat you this roundly? You’re kicking me around like I’m a football. You kick me out, he kicks me back. If I keep working for you, I’m going to end up wrapped in leather, like a football.

Look at you! You have impatience all over your face.

He feels the need to grace all his other tramps with his presence while I sit at home starving for a smile from him. Has homely old age taken the alluring beauty from my poor cheeks? That’s because he has squandered my beauty. Am I boring? Have I lost my wit? If my conversation is no longer free and clever, that’s because he’s dulled it—I’m like a sharp tool he’s blunted with a hard piece of marble. Is he charmed by their pretty clothes? Well, that’s not my fault—he’s the one in charge of my spending. What faults can you find in me that weren’t first caused by him? One smile from him would repair my decayed beauty. But like an unruly deer, he’s always trespassing past the park borders and straying away from home to feed in new pastures. I am nothing but a poor, used fool.

This jealousy is harming only you! Drive it out of you.

Only someone who doesn’t feel this pain could tell me to ignore it. I know his eyes are worshiping some other woman, or why wouldn’t he be here? Sister, you know he promised to give me a necklace. I would gladly do without that if he would only stay faithful to me. Even the best jewel can be tarnished. Gold, however, can’t be corrupted—though it can be worn down if it’s touched too often. And no man with a reputation will tarnish that name with lies and bad behavior. Since my beauty no longer pleases my husband, I’ll weep away what’s left and then die with weeping.

How many infatuated people go mad with jealousy!