The Taming of the Shrew

No, no, I can’t, really. He’d kill me.

The more I suffer, the more spiteful he becomes. Did he marry me just to starve me? Beggars at my father’s door are given money as soon as they ask for it. And if they don’t find charity there, they find it someplace else. But I, who have never known how to beg and never had to beg, am starved for food, dizzy with lack of sleep, kept awake with curses and fed with brawling. And what irks me more than all these things put together is that he does it under the pretense of love—as though for me to eat or sleep would bring on fatal illness or sudden death. Please, go and get me something to eat. I don’t care what so long as it’s nutritious.

What do you say to a calf’s foot?

Oh, lovely. Can I have some?

I’m afraid it will raise your blood pressure. What do you say to an ox stomach, nicely broiled?

I’d love it. Nice Grumio, bring me some.

I don’t know. I’m afraid it will make you too hot, too. What do you say to a piece of beef with mustard?

A favorite dish of mine.

Yes, but the mustard is probably too hot.

Well then, the beef without the mustard.

Absolutely not. You’ll take the mustard or you’ll get no beef from Grumio.

Then both, or one, or anything you like.

How about the mustard without the beef.

Get out of here, you measly, lying wretch. (she beats him.) You feed me with only the names of foods. To hell with you and the whole pack of you who triumph at my misery. Go on, I said get out of here.

How is my Kate? Feeling blue, darling?

Mistress, how are you?

Believe me, I’ve been better.

Cheer up. Give us a smile. Look, love, see how devoted I am? I’ve prepared a meal for you myself, and here it is. I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness deserves thanks. What, not a word? I guess you don’t want it. Ah well, all my trouble was for nothing. Here, take away the dish.

Please, leave it here.

The smallest service is repaid with thanks. Mine will be, too, before you touch the food.

Thank you, sir.

Shame on you, Petruchio! You are too harsh. Come, mistress Kate, I’ll join you.

(speaking so that only HORTENSIO can hear) Do me a favor and scarf it all down yourself, Hortensio.—May it do your gentle heart good, Kate. Eat up quickly, my honey lamb, we’re off to your father’s house to join in the revelry, where we’ll dress as well as the best of them, with silk robes and caps and golden rings, collars and cuffs and fancy frocks and things, with scarves and fans and two changes of clothes, amber bracelets, beads, and plenty of gewgaws. All finished? The tailor is waiting to deck you out in ruffled finery.

Now, tailor, let’s see what you’ve got. Lay out the gown.

What can I do for you, sir?

Here is the cap your Worship ordered.

Why, this was modeled on a porridge bowl! It’s a velvet dish! No, definitely not! It’s cheap and nasty! It’s like a cockleshell or a walnut shell, a joke, a prank, a doll’s cap. Take it away. Bring me a bigger one.

I won’t have one any bigger. This is the fashion. Gentlewomen are wearing caps like this right now.

When you are gentle, you shall have one, too, and not till then.

(to himself) That won’t be anytime soon.

Sir, I think I have the right to speak, and speak I certainly will. I am not a child or an infant. Better men than you have heard me speak my mind, and if you can’t take it, then you’d better plug your ears. I’ll express my anger or die concealing it. And rather than have that happen, I’ll give myself permission to speak as freely as I like, whatever I may have to say.

You know, you’re right. It’s a measly little cap, a dessert crust, a plaything, a silk pie. I love you all the more for not liking it.

I don’t care if you love me or not, I like the cap and I’ll have it or I won’t have any.

Now, your gown? Yes, yes. Come, tailor, show it to us. Merciful God! What sort of costume do we have here? What do you call this? A sleeve? It’s like a cannon. What have you done? Carved it up and down like an apple tart? Snip and snip and cut and slash—it’s got more holes than a sieve! What in the world do you call this, tailor!

(to himself) I see she’s likely to have neither cap nor gown.

You told me to make it well and properly and in keeping with the current style.

Certainly, I did. But if you remember, I didn’t tell you to parody the style. Go on home, sir. You’ve lost me as a customer. I won’t take it. Do whatever you want with it.

I never saw a better-designed gown, more elegant and pleasing and well made. Perhaps you think you can make me into some sort of plaything?

Yes, that’s it! The tailor thinks he can make you into some sort of plaything.

She says your Worship thinks you can make her into some sort of plaything.

What monstrous arrogance! It’s a lie, you thread, you thimble, you measurement! You flea, you louse, you winter cricket! Disrespected in my own house by a spool of thread! Get out of here you rag, you remnant, you piece of yardage, or I’ll measure you within an inch of your life with your own yardstick, and you’ll remember your yammering for the rest of your life. I tell you, you’ve ruined her gown.

It’s not true. The gown was made just as my master was directed. Grumio gave the order for how it should be done.

I gave him no order. I gave him the material.

But how did you want it made?

With a needle and thread.

But didn’t you expect us to cut the cloth?

You’ve faced many things, haven’t you?

I have.

Well, don’t face off with me. You have bested many things, well don’t try and best me. I will not be faced or bested. I tell you I requested that your master cut out the gown, but I didn’t ask him to cut it all to pieces. Therefore, it follows you’re a liar.

Why, here is the order to prove it.

Read it.

The note is a big fat liar if it says I said so.

(reading) “Item one, a loose-bodied gown—”

Master, if ever I said “ loose-bodied gown ,” sew me into the skirts of it and beat me to death with a bobbin of brown thread. I said “a gown.”

Go on.

(he reads) “With a half-circle cape—”

I admit the cape.

(he reads) “With a wide sleeve—”

I admit two sleeves.

(he reads) “The sleeves carefully cut.”

Ah, there’s the problem.

Error in the bill, sir, error in the bill! I ordered that the sleeves be cut out and sewed up again, and I’ll prove it in combat even if your little finger is armed with your thimble.

What I say is true. And if this were a fitting place, I’d prove it.

I am ready for you. You take the bill and I’ll take your yardstick. Do your worst!

God have mercy, Grumio! He won’t have a chance.

Well, sir, the gown is not for me.

You are right, it’s for my mistress.

Go, take it away and let your master make whatever use of it he can.

Certainly not! Take off my mistress’ gown for your master’s use!

Why, what’s the problem?

Oh, sir, the problem goes far deeper than you realize. Take up my mistress’ gown for his master’s use! Oh, that’s disgusting!

(speaking so that only HORTENSIO can hear) Hortensio, tell the tailor you’ll make sure he gets paid. (to TAILOR) Take it away. Off you go. There’s no more to be said.

(speaking so that only TAILOR can hear) Tailor, I’ll pay you for the gown tomorrow. Don’t be offended at his angry words. Go on, then. Regards to your master.

Ah well, my Kate. We’ll go to your father’s house dressed as we are, in simple but honest clothes. Our purses shall be rich, our garments poor. After all, it’s the mind that enriches the body, and just as the sun shines through the darkest clouds, well, that’s how clearly honor peeps through even the humblest style of dress. I mean, is the jay more precious than the lark because his feather is more beautiful? Is the snake better than the eel because the pattern on his back pleases the eye? Hardly, Kate. By the same token you are worth no less for your simple clothes and lack of finery. If you regard it as shameful, put the shame on me. So, let’s perk up! We’re off to eat and whoop it up at your father’s house.(to GRUMIO) Go, call my men so we can leave right away. And bring our horses to the end of Long Lane. We’ll walk there on foot and mount up there. Let’s see, I think it must be seven o’clock, so we should get there easily by lunchtime.

I hate to say it, but it’s almost two and we won’t get there before suppertime.

It shall be seven o’clock before I get on my horse. Whatever I say, or think, or do, you’re continually contradicting it. Sirs, never mind. We won’t go today—or any day until it’s clear that it shall be whatever time I say it is.

(to himself) I see this fellow intends to command the sun.