The Taming of the Shrew

Dear sister, it’s unfair to me—and unfair to yourself—to turn me into a slave. That I won’t stand for. But if you want my things—untie my hands and I’ll give them to you myself, everything, even down to my slip. Or anything else you order me to do. I know I should obey my elders.

What I want is for you to tell me which of your suitors you like best. And don’t lie.

I swear, dear sister, I have not yet encountered that special face I might prefer to any other.

You lying brat. It’s Hortensio, isn’t it?

If you want him, dear sister, he’s yours. I swear I’ll woo him for you myself.

Oh, I see. You’re more interested in money. You’ll live in luxury with Gremio.

Is it because of him that you envy me? You must be kidding! And now I see that you’ve been joking all the while. Please, Kate, untie my hands.

If that’s a joke, I guess the rest was, too.

What in the world is going on! (to KATHERINE) Young lady, where do you get the nerve!—(to BIANCA) Get behind me, Bianca.—Poor girl, she’s hysterical!—Go do some sewing. Don’t even talk to her. (to KATHERINE) You monstrous, good-for-nothing fiend! Why would you want to hurt your sister? She never did you any harm! When has she spoken even one cross word to you?

She mocks me with her silence, and I’ll get my revenge on her.

What, in my presence? How dare you!—Bianca, go inside.

You mean you don’t even want to hear my side? Of course! She’s your treasure. She must have a husband and I must dance barefoot on her wedding day. You like her best and so I’ll die an old maid. Don’t talk to me. I’ll just go cry myself sick and think of some way to get back at all of you.

Has any man ever had to put up with what I do? Now what?

Good morning, neighbor Baptista.

Good morning, neighbor Gremio. Greetings, gentlemen.

And to you, good sir. Tell me, don’t you have a virtuous and lovely daughter named Katherina?

I have a daughter named Katherina, sir.

(to PETRUCHIO) You are too blunt. You’re supposed to work up to it.

Please, Signior Gremio. Allow me to continue.—I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, who, hearing of your daughter’s beauty and wit, her friendly disposition and bashful modesty, her uncommon virtues and her mild behavior, have taken the liberty of presenting myself as a guest at your house in the hope of seeing for myself if what I’ve heard is true. And, as the price of admission for being received by you, I here present you with a servant of mine. (he presents HORTENSIO, disguised as LITIO)*. He is expert in the fields of music and mathematics. I thought he might instruct her in those branches of knowledge—of which she is, I gather, no beginner. Be good enough to accept this gift—I’ll be offended if you don’t. His name is Litio, and he comes from Mantua.

You and he are both welcome, sir. As for my daughter Katherine, this much I know: she’s not for you—more’s the pity.

I see you don’t intend to part with her—or perhaps you don’t like my company.

Don’t misunderstand me, sir. I’m just stating the facts as I see them. Where are you from? What’s your name?

My name is Petruchio, son of Antonio, a man well known throughout Italy.

I know him well. You are welcome for his sake.

With all due respect, Petruchio, give someone else a chance to speak. You’re so aggressive!

Forgive me, Signior Gremio, but I’m anxious to get things moving.

No doubt, but you may be going about it the wrong way—Neighbor, this gift is very gracious, I’m sure. I myself, who am more indebted to you than anyone, have brought you this young scholar (presenting LUCENTIO, disguised as CAMBIO) who has long studied at Rheims. He is as expert in Greek, Latin, and other languages as that other man is in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio. Please accept his services.

Many thanks, Signior Gremio. Welcome, good Cambio. (to TRANIO as LUCENTIO) As for you, sir, you would appear to be a stranger. May I be so bold as to ask your reason for coming?

(as LUCENTIO) Pardon me, sir, the boldness is all mine in seeking to court your fair and virtuous daughter, Bianca. I am indeed a stranger in this city. I’m aware of your firm decision regarding her older sister. I only ask that when you know who my parents are, I may be made as welcome as her other suitors and given the same freedom and favor. My contribution toward the education of your daughters is a lute and this small package of Greek and Latin books. (BIONDELLO brings the gifts forward) You would add to their value by accepting them.

Your name is Lucentio, you say. Of what city, may I ask?

(as LUCENTIO) Of Pisa, sir, son of Vincentio.

A man of great influence. I know him well by reputation. You are very welcome here, sir. (to HORTENSIO as LITIO) You take the lute (to LUCENTIO as CAMBIO), and you, the set of books. I’ll send you to your pupils right away. You there in the house!

Boy, take these gentlemen to my daughters, and tell them both they are to be their teachers and to be courteous to them.

Let’s take a little walk in the orchard before dinner. You are all most welcome here; please make yourselves at home.

Signior Baptista, I’m actually in a bit of a hurry. I can’t make this wooing into a daily thing. You knew my father well; therefore, you know me, the sole heir to all his property and possessions, which I have added to rather than depleted. So, tell me, assuming I win your daughter’s love, what dowry would she bring to the marriage?

Twenty thousand crowns now, and half my lands after my death.

Fair enough. And on my side, I’ll guarantee that if I die before she does, she shall inherit all my land and the rent from any property I own. Let’s have explicit contracts drawn up to ensure that both sides keep their promises.

Certainly, as soon as you’ve gotten the most important thing—her love. That counts for everything.

Oh, that’s nothing, believe me, sir. I’m as commanding as she is proud, and when two raging fires meet, they end up consuming the very thing that kindled them. Blow on a fire and all you do is fan the flames. But a great gust of wind will blow the fire out completely. I’m that great gust to her fire. I’m rough, and I don’t woo like a little boy.

Well, good luck! I hope you’re successful. But prepare yourself for some unpleasantness.

I’ll be completely prepared. Mountains don’t tremble, however much the wind may blow!

Gracious! Why so pale, my friend?

(as LITIO) I would have to say from fear.

Will my daughter be a good musician, do you think?

I think she’ll be a better soldier. She may be good with firearms. Never lutes.

You don’t think you can teach her?

No, but she’s taught me a thing or two! All I said was that she was using the wrong frets and tried to adjust her fingering. And she jumps up and says, “Frets? I’ll give you frets!” With that, she clobbers me with the lute so that my head goes right through, and there I am, dazed, strings around my neck, looking through the sound hole like I was in the stocks, while she calls me “worthless fiddler,” “twanging twerp,” and twenty more hateful names, as though she’d prepared for me by composing a long list of insults to use on my behalf.

I like this girl! She has real character! Now I want her more than ever. I can’t wait to meet her!

(to HORTENSIO, disguised as LITIO) All right, come with me. Don’t be discouraged. Continue your lessons with my younger daughter. She’s quick to learn and responsive. Signior Petruchio, will you come with us, or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

Please do.

I’ll wait for her here and when she comes I’ll take a novel approach with her. If she rants, I’ll tell her that she sings as sweetly as a nightingale. If she glares, I’ll say her brow is as clear as roses newly washed with morning dew. If she is silent and won’t speak at all, I’ll praise her chattiness and say she speaks with piercing eloquence. If she orders me to go, I’ll thank her warmly as if she’d just offered to put me up for a week. If she refuses my proposal, I’ll tell her how much I’m looking forward to the announcement and the wedding. But here she comes. Here goes!

Good morning, Kate, for I hear that’s what you’re called.

Is that what you’ve heard? Then you’d better get your ears checked. I am called Katherine by those who have any business using my name.

Liar. In fact, you’re called Kate, plain Kate—and pretty Kate, and sometimes Kate the shrew. But it’s definitely Kate—the prettiest Kate in the world, Katie, Kitty, Kat-woman, the Kate-ster—and so, Kate, here’s my pitch: that having heard your charming disposition praised—not to mention your beauty and your virtues, though none of them as richly as you deserve—I find myself driven to propose. I want you for my wife.

“Driven?” Really? Well, let whoever drove you here drive you back again. I had you figured for a piece of furniture.

What do you mean by “furniture”?

A nice stool.

You’re right, actually. Come sit on me.

Asses are made for bearing, and so are you.

Women are made for bearing, and so are you.

Not by the likes of you!

Oh heavens, Kate, I wouldn’t think of burdening you. I know how light and carefree you are.

Too light for a lout like you to catch—though no lighter than I should be.

Should be? Maybe you should be the subject of some buzz!

Buzz off, buzzard.

If I’m a buzzard, you’re a turtledove.

Only a buzzard would think so.

Come, my little wasp—you’re too angry.

If I’m a wasp, look out for my stinger.

All I have to do is remove it.

True, if a fool such as yourself could find it.

Everyone knows where a wasp wears its stinger. In its tail.

No, in its tongue.

Whose tongue?

Yours, if we’re talking about tales. I’m leaving.

You’re leaving with my tongue in your tail? No, come back, Kate. I’m too much of a gentleman.

A gentleman? We’ll see about that!

I swear I’ll smack you if you hit me again.

Not if you want to keep your arms! If you hit me, that proves you’re not a gentleman. And if you’re not a gentleman, you don’t have any arms.

Are you a herald, Kate? Put me in your books!

What is your crest? A coxcomb?

I’ll give up my comb, if you’ll be my hen.

Your cock is not for me. It has no fighting spirit.

Oh, come on now, Kate. Don’t look so sour.

That’s my way, when I see a crab-apple.

There’s no crab-apple here, so don’t look sour.

There is a crab-apple here.

Show me.

I would, if I had a mirror.

What, you mean my face looks like a crab-apple?

What a clever child he is!

You know, you’re right. I probably am too young for you.

Maybe, but you’re wrinkled all the same.

Oh, that’s with worry.

Well, that doesn’t worry me.

Listen, Kate! You won’t get away like that.

Let me go. I’ll make you angry if I stay.

No, not a bit. I find you quite gentle. I was told that you were violent, proud, and sullen. But now I see that people have been lying about you, for you are funny, playful, and beautifully behaved, not sharp-tongued, but as sweet as flowers in springtime. You haven’t got it in you to frown or look displeased or bite your lip as angry women do. You don’t take pleasure in bitter conversation. No, you entertain your suitors with mild and gentle conversation, quiet and pleasant. Why does the world report that Kate is lame? The world’s a liar. Kate is as straight and slender as a hazel-twig, her hair as brown as hazelnut shells, and she herself sweeter than the kernels. Take a few steps—I want to see you walk. You don’t limp at all!

Get out of here, fool, and give orders to your servants, not me.

Did Diana ever beautify a grove as much as Kate beautifies this room with her queenly movements? You be Diana, and let Diana be Kate. Then let Kate be the chaste one, while Diana plays with me.

Where do you memorize all this smart talk?

I make it up as I go. It’s born of my mother wit.

A witty mother! Too bad about the son!

Am I not wise?

Enough to keep yourself warm.

Yes, I intend to keep myself warm, sweet Katherine—in your bed. So let’s cut to the chase: your father has consented for you to become my wife. Your dowry is agreed upon, and whether you like it or not, I will marry you. I tell you, I’m the man for you, Kate. I swear by this light, which shows me your beauty—the beauty that makes me love you—that you must be married to no man but me. I’m the man who was born to tame you and change you from a wildcat Kate into a Kate as gentle and domestic as other household Kates.

Here comes your father. Don’t even think about refusing. I must and will have Katherine for my wife.

Now, Signior Petruchio, how are you getting on with my daughter?

Beautifully, sir, beautifully! It couldn’t go any other way.

Now, daughter Katherine? Are you down in the dumps?

You have the nerve to call me daughter? Is this a father’s loving care—wanting to marry me off to a total madman, a worthless, irresponsible louse who thinks if he swears enough, he’ll get his way?

Sir, this is the truth: you and the rest—all the people who have ever talked about her—have all been wrong. If she seems fierce, it’s for a reason. She’s not obstinate but gentle as the dove, not high-strung but peaceful as the morning. She has the patience of a Griselda and the modesty of Rome’s Lucrece. In short, we’ve gotten along so well that Sunday is our wedding day.

I’ll see you hanged on Sunday first!

Listen to that Petruchio: she says she’ll see you hanged first.

Is this your idea of success? So much for our plan.

Relax, gentlemen. I’ve made my choice. If she and I are happy, what’s it to you? When we were alone, we agreed that in public she would go on being unpleasant. I tell you, though, it’s incredible how much she loves me. Darling Kate! She hung about my neck, smothering me with kisses, making vow after vow. In this way, she won my heart lickety-split! You men are rank beginners! It’s amazing how even a timid wretch can tame the most dreadful shrew, if the two are left alone together. Give me your hand, Kate. I’m off to Venice to buy outfits for the wedding. Plan the feast, sir, and invite the guests. I want my Katherine decked out in the finest clothes.

I don’t know what to say. Well, give me your hands. God give you joy, Petruchio. Call it a match!

Amen to that! We’ll be your witnesses.

Father, wife, friends—farewell! I’m off to Venice. Sunday is just around the corner. We will have rings and things and fancy dress! So kiss me, Kate. We’re to be married on Sunday.

Was there ever a match put together so quickly?

Truly, gentlemen, this is a chancy piece of business. I’ve made a risky investment.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) Yes, but the item was just gathering dust. This way, you’ll either make a profit by it or lose it on the high seas.

The only profit I seek is a peaceful match.

There’s no doubt that Petruchio’s got quite a catch. Now, Baptista, let’s turn to your younger daughter. We’ve been waiting a long time for this day. I’m your neighbor and came courting first.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) And I am one who loves Bianca more than words can express, more than you can imagine.

Callow youth, you don’t yet know how to love!

(speaking as LUCENTIO) Old man, your love is ice.

And you’re all sizzle. Stand back, boy. Age is the thing that nourishes.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) Yes, but in the ladies’ eyes, it’s youth that flourishes.

Enough, gentlemen. I will settle this matter. Deeds will determine the winner here. Whichever of you can promise Bianca the greatest dower shall have my daughter’s love. Tell me, Signior Gremio, what can you offer her?

First of all, my house in the city, as you know, is filled with expensive furniture and household articles, china and gold, basins and pitchers for her to wash her dainty hands in. All my wall hangings are tapestries from Tyre. My ivory strongboxes are stuffed with gold, my wooden trunks filled with elegant rugs, expensive clothing, hangings and bed curtains, fine linens, Turkish cushions trimmed with pearls, Venetian draperies, pewter and brass, and everything else a household could possibly want. Then, at my farm I have a hundred milk cows, a hundred and twenty fat oxen in my stables, and all the equipment necessary to maintain them. I’m getting on in years, and if I died tomorrow, all this will belong to Bianca—if only while I live she’ll belong solely to me.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) That “solely” is very much to the point. (to BAPTISTA) Sir, hear me out: I am my father’s only son and, as such, his sole heir. If you give me your daughter’s hand in marriage, she will end up with three or four houses in Pisa as good as any one that Gremio has in Padua—not to mention the two thousand ducats a year that my land earns me. All of which I’ll leave her in my will. Did I see you flinch, Signior Gremio?

Two thousand ducats a year from his land! (to himself) All my land together isn’t worth that much!—Aha! I forgot to mention the merchant ship that lies in Marseilles harbor. (to TRANIO) Sorry—have I caught you choking on a merchant ship?

(speaking as LUCENTIO) Please, Gremio! Everyone knows that my father has no less than three, huge merchant ships and fourteen galleys—two large and twelve small. These also I promise to Bianca—and whatever your next offer is, I’ll double it.

I have nothing else to offer. That’s everything I own. I can’t offer her more than all I have. (to BAPTISTA) If you choose me, she shall have me and mine.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) In that case I, of all the men in the world, have won the maid, by your explicit promise. Gremio is outbid.

I must admit your offer is the best. And provided that your father will be your guarantor, she shall be yours. Otherwise—forgive me, but if you should die before him, what becomes of her dowry?

(speaking as LUCENTIO) That’s nothing! He is old, I’m young.

Oh, and young men never die?

Well, gentlemen, that’s my decision. As you know, next Sunday my daughter Katherina is to be married. (to TRANIO as LUCENTIO) Therefore, the Sunday after, Bianca shall be married to you—if you obtain that guarantee. If not, she’ll be married to Signior Gremio. And so I thank you both and bid you goodbye.

Farewell, good neighbor.

Now I’m not worried. You there, young sport! Your father would be a fool to give you all his wealth and spend his declining years as a guest in your house. It’s absurd. An old Italian fox is never that generous, my boy.

Sneaky, dried-up old coot! We’ll see who gets the upper hand! I’ve already bluffed pretty well—and without even a face card. I have a mind to help my master. Clearly, the fake Lucentio will have to produce a father—call him “fake Vincentio”—and it will be a miracle. Usually fathers produce children, not the other way around. But in this case of wooing, a child shall father his own father—if my wits don’t fail me.