The Taming of the Shrew

I’ll fix you, I swear.

You thug! I’ll call for a pair of stocks!

There are no thugs in my family, whore! Read your history! We Slys came over with Richard the Conqueror. Oh, the hell with it. I can’t be bothered. Shut up!

You won’t pay for the glasses you smashed?

No, not a penny. Get out of my face. Go play with yourself.

I know my rights. I’ll call a policeman.

Call them all! I have a legal right to be here. I’m not moving an inch, pal. Let them come—I don’t care.

Huntsman, look after my hounds. Let Merriman catch his breath—the poor dog’s foaming at the mouth. And tie up Clowder together with the long-mouthed bitch. (to his page) Did you see, boy, how Silver picked up the scent at the hedge corner, where it was weakest? I wouldn’t part with that dog for twenty pounds.

I think Belman is just as good, my lord. He set up a howl when the scent was lost completely and twice picked it up where it was weakest. I swear he’s the better dog.

You’re a fool. If Echo were as fast, he would be worth a dozen like Belman. But give them all a good dinner and look after them well. I’ll go hunting again tomorrow, I think.

I will, my lord.

What’s this? A drunkard or a corpse? Check and see if he’s breathing.

He is, my lord. But this would be too cold a place to sleep if he hadn’t warmed himself with ale.

It’s disgusting, sleeping that way—like a pig in the gutter! Alas, grim death, how vile and ugly your near-twin, sleep, is! Gentlemen, I think I’ll play a trick on this lout. What do you think? Say we were to carry him to one of the bedrooms, put fresh clothes on him and rings on his fingers, lay out a wonderful feast by his bed, and have servants in fancy dress near him when he wakes up—wouldn’t the poor tramp be confused?

I don’t think he’d have any choice, my lord.

When he woke, he wouldn’t know where he was.

It would be just like a nice daydream or fantasy. Well, take him on up and we’ll try to pull it off. Carry him to my best room—gently, so he doesn’t wake—and hang all my erotic paintings around him. Bathe his filthy head with warm, scented water. Burn fragrant wood to give the room a pleasant smell, and have musicians at hand, ready to produce sweet, soothing sounds when he awakes. You want to be ready in case he speaks. If he does, bow low and say deferentially, “What would your Honor have us do?” Have one servant wait on him with a basin of rosewater (throw in some petals), have another servant carry a pitcher, and a third a cloth. Say, “Would your Lordship care to freshen up?” Have someone standing by with expensive clothes, and ask him what he’d care to wear. Have another servant tell him about the dogs and horses that he owns and that his wife is grief-stricken over his illness. Convince him that he has been out of his mind—and when he says he’s out of his mind now, tell him he’s mistaken and that he is in fact a mighty lord. Do this—make it convincing—and we’ll have fun. It could work if it’s done subtly.

My lord, I promise we will play our parts so skillfully that he will believe everything we tell him.

Carry him gently to bed, and every man be ready at his post when he awakes.

Go, lad, and find out what the trumpet’s sounding for.

It’s probably some noble gentleman stopping off in mid-journey, thinking to spend the night here.

Well, who is it?

Sir, it’s a troupe of actors who want to perform for your Lordship.

Have them come in.

You are welcome here, my friends.

We thank your Honor.

Were you thinking of spending the night here?

Yes, if that would be all right with your Lordship.

By all means. I remember this fellow—he once played the eldest son of a farmer. It was the play in which you wooed the gentlewoman so successfully. I have forgotten your name, but you were well cast in the role and played it convincingly.

I believe your Honor is thinking of a character called Soto.

Yes, that was it. You gave an excellent performance. Well, this is very fortunate, your arriving just at this moment. I happen to be planning a little entertainment and could really use your services. There is a particular lord who will watch you perform tonight. I’m a little worried, though—because his Honor has never seen a play before—that his odd behavior may strike you as funny. You might not be able to control your laughter and you might offend him. I warn you, he’s sensitive. The slightest smile provokes him.

Don’t worry. We’ll restrain ourselves—no matter how bizarrely he behaves.

Go, lad, and take them to the pantry. Make them feel welcome and see to it that they have everything they require.

You, fellow, go fetch my page, Bartholomew, and dress him up like a noble lady. When you’ve finished, bring him to the drunkard’s room, address him as “madam,” bow to him and treat him with all-round respect and deference, as though he were the lady of the house. Give him this message: if he wants to please me, he will conduct himself like a member of the aristocracy, mimicking the kind of behavior he’s seen noble ladies use toward their husbands.

That’s just how I want him to behave toward the drunkard, speaking in a low, soft voice and in humble, courteous tones and saying fancy stuff like, “What does your Honor wish to command your lady, your humble wife, to do to show her devotion and demonstrate her love?” Tell him to give the drunkard fond embraces and alluring kisses, and lay his head on the other man’s breast, weeping like a woman overjoyed to see a husband restored to health who for the last seven years has imagined he was no better than a poor, pathetic beggar. The boy may lack a woman’s gift for weeping at will, so it might be good to have an onion handy, hidden in a handkerchief. That’ll make his eyes stream. Get this done as quickly as you can. I’ll give you more instructions later.

I know the boy will be a convincing gentlewoman, taking up her exact walk and talk and gentle gestures. I can’t wait to hear him call the drunkard “husband,” and to watch my men smother their laughter as they pay their respects to this simple peasant. I’ll go and coach them. My presence may put a damper on their high spirits, which might otherwise get out of control.

For God’s sake, would someone bring me a mug of beer!

Wouldn’t your Lordship prefer some imported wine?

Would your Honor like to try this dried fruit?

What garment would your Honor like to wear today?

I’m Christopher Sly. Don’t call me “your Honor” and “your Lordship.” I’ve never had imported wine in my life, and if you want to bring me something “dried,” try beef jerky. Why ask me what “garment” I’ll wear? I have no more jackets than I have backs, no more leggings than I have legs, and no more shoes than I have feet—in fact, sometimes I have fewer shoes than feet, as I’m not sure the ones where my toes stick out can be called “shoes.”

May Heaven put an end to this foolish fantasy of your Honor’s! How terrible that a man of your influence and noble family, with so much wealth and an excellent reputation, should be infected with such a horrible illness!

What, are you trying to make me crazy? I’m Christopher Sly, son of old Sly of Barton-on-Heath, a peddler by birth, a cardmaker by trade, a keeper of trained bears by bad luck, and now, by present profession, a tinker. Go ask Marian Hacket, the fat innkeeper of Wincot. She knows me! She’ll tell you about the tab I’ve run up—fourteen pence just for ale. If she doesn’t, call me the biggest liar in Christendom. I’m not crazy! Just look at how—

Oh, this is why your poor wife is mourning!

And this is why your servants hang their heads in sorrow!

And this is why your relatives never visit, frightened away by this unnatural insanity of yours. Oh noble lord, consider your lineage. Try to recall your former state of mental health and forget these crass, lowly desires. Look how your servants wait on you, each one ready to do whatever you command. Would you care to hear some music? Listen! That’s Apollo playing.

And those birds you hear—twenty caged nightingales. Do you want to sleep? We’ll have a couch made up that’s softer and more fragrant even than the bed of lustful Semiramis. Say you want to take a walk, and we’ll sprinkle the ground with flowers. Or do you want to go horseback riding? Your horses will be adorned with harnesses decorated in gold and pearls. Do you like hawking? You have hawks that can soar higher than the morning lark. Or do you want to hunt? Your hounds will make the sky echo with their high-pitched voices.

If you care to hunt rabbits, your greyhounds are as swift as healthy stags and faster than young deer.

Do you like pictures? We’ll be right back with one of Adonis stretched out beside a rushing brook, with Venus spying on him, hidden in rushes that seem to move and undulate with her lustful sighs, like grass waving in the wind.

There’s one that shows Io as a maid, before she was turned into a cow, in which Jupiter tricks and takes her. It’s so realistic, it seems to be happening right before your eyes.

There’s one of Daphne running through the woods, her legs so scratched by thorns that Apollo himself would weep at the sight. You’ll swear the blood and tears are real.

You are nothing less than a lord. You have a noble wife who is much more beautiful than any other woman in this declining age.

Before she began shedding tears all over her lovely face, she was the fairest creature in the world—and even now she has no equal.

I’m really a lord? And do I really have a wife like that? Is this a dream? Or has everything up till now been a dream? I don’t seem to be asleep: I can see and hear and speak. I can smell sweet smells and feel things that are soft to the touch. I’ll be damned! I guess I really am a lord and not a tinker, and not Christopher Sly, either. Well, bring my wife to me. Oh, and don’t forget the beer.

Would your Mightiness care to wash his hands? We’re overjoyed to see you sane again. If only you had a clearer memory of who you are! These past fifteen years you have been living in a dream, and even when you were awake, it was as though you slept.

Fifteen years! That’s some nap. But I never spoke the whole time?

Oh yes, you spoke, my lord, but total nonsense. For instance, you’d be lying here in this comfortable room, but you’d say that you were being thrown out of some tavern and would shout at a landlady about how you were going to take her to court for cheating you. Sometimes you would call out for one Cicely Hacket.

Yes, the landlady’s maid.

But sir, there is no such house, no such maid, and no such men as you have dreamed up, like a certain Stephen Sly and one old John Naps of Greece, a Peter Turph, one “Henry Pimpernell,” and twenty more men of this sort—who never actually existed.

Well, thank God I’m cured!

Amen.

I thank you all. You won’t regret this.

How is my noble lord?

Not bad, actually. This is all quite pleasant. Where is my wife?

Here, noble lord. What is your wish with regard to her?

You call yourself my wife, yet you don’t call me “husband”? It’s my men who should call me “lord.” I’m your man, your fellow.

My husband is my lord and my lord is my husband. For I am your all-obedient wife.

Yes, I see.—(to the LORD) What should I call her?

“Madam.”

“Madam Alice?” Or “Madam Joan?”

Just “madam.” That’s how noblemen address their wives.

Madam wife, they say I’ve been dreaming or asleep for more than fifteen years.

Yes, and it seemed twice as long to me, having been kept from your bed that whole time.

That’s too long.—Servants, leave her and me alone. Now, madam, undress and come to bed.

Thrice noble lord, I beg you to excuse me for another night or two—or at least until nightfall. Your doctors have expressly forbidden me to sleep with you, as there’s a risk that you might have a relapse. I hope this explanation will stand as my excuse.

Well, something’s standing up. I’m not sure I can wait that long. Still, I’d hate to see my former dreams return. So I will wait, however flesh and blood may feel about it.

Your Honor’s actors, hearing of your recovery, have come to perform a pleasing comedy for you—and your doctors approve wholeheartedly. They say that too much suffering has made your blood coagulate, and that sadness leads to madness. So they think it’s a good idea for you to watch a play and direct your thoughts toward laughter and merriment—two strong preventive medicines that foster long life.

Okay, bring on the play. But what’s a “comonty?” Some sort of Christmas skit or display of acrobatics?

No, my good lord, this is nicer stuff.

What, like stuff from a house?

No, it’s a story.

Well, let’s watch it. Come, madam wife, sit here beside me. Let’s forget our cares. We’re not getting any younger.

Well, Tranio, here we are in fertile Lombardy, garden of Italy, about to fulfill my lifelong dream. You know how I’ve always longed to see the fair city of Padua, famous for its arts and letters, and now, thanks to my father’s generosity, here I am—with his blessing and your good company. So, my trusty servant—and you’ve never let me down—why don’t we settle here for a time to institute a course of study, a really rigorous curriculum. I was born in Pisa, famous for its serious citizens, like my father before me; my father, Vincentio, a successful, world-traveled merchant, was one of the Bentivolii. It’s only fitting that I, his son, reared in Florence, should concentrate on adding more virtuous deeds to my father’s own, stacking them on top of his wealth. For this reason, Tranio, I’ll study ethics and—for the time being, anyway—pursue those areas of philosophy that teach a man how to achieve happiness through virtue. What do you think of all this? Leaving Pisa for Padua, I feel a little like a thirsty man who turns from a puddle to a vast lake he can drink from.

Pardon me, gentle master. As usual, I’m in complete agreement with you about everything, and glad that you still relish the idea of studying philosophy—and let me add that I admire your virtue and your moral discipline. That said, let’s not become total stoics or unfeeling blocks of wood and give up all thought of pleasure. We don’t want to become so focused on Aristotle that we forget to read Ovid. Here’s my thought: practice your logic as you chat with your friends, and your rhetoric in ordinary conversation. Use music and poetry to excite your senses. Math and metaphysics—well, I’d play them by ear, spending only as much time on them as you can stand. There’s nothing to be gained from things we take no pleasure in. What I’m saying, sir, is this: study what you most enjoy.

Thanks, Tranio. That’s good advice. Now if only Biondello would get here, we could find a nice place to stay where the friends we’ll make here in Padua could visit us. Wait! Who are all these people?

Maybe it’s a parade to welcome us to town, master.

Enough, gentlemen! You can’t influence me on this point. You know how I feel. I’m determined not to permit my younger daughter to marry until I have a husband for the elder one. I’ve long regarded you both as good friends. Therefore, if either of you is partial to Katherina, he shall have my permission to court her freely.

Cart her, you mean. She’s too much for me. How about you, Hortensio? Are you still interested in marrying?

(to BAPTISTA) May I ask, sir, if it’s your intention to publicly humiliate me, showing me off like a whore in front of these suitors?

We’re not your suitors, that’s for sure! Not until you improve your temper, girl!

Don’t worry, I couldn’t care less. The only possible interest I could take in you would be to hit you on the head with a stool, paint your face with blood, and make a fool out of you.

May the good Lord keep me safe from all women like her!

Me too, Lord!

(speaking so that only LUCENTIO can hear) Wow! This’ll be fun to watch! This girl is either completely crazy or incredibly willful.

(speaking so that only TRANIO can hear) But her sister seems quiet and well behaved, as a young girl should be. Shhh, Tranio.

(speaking so that only LUCENTIO can hear) Indeed, master. Let’s keep quiet and watch.

(to GREMIO and HORTENSIO) Gentlemen, since I’d like to make good on what I’ve said—Bianca, go inside. And don’t be unhappy, my dear. Whatever happens, you know I’ll never love you less.

What a spoiled little brat. She’d make herself cry now, if she could think of a reason.

Sister, be happy in my unhappiness.—Sir, I will humbly obey you. I’ll take comfort in my books and music, reading and practicing my instruments.

Listen Tranio! That’s Minerva’s voice you hear.

Signior Baptista, will you really be this cruel? I regret that our goodwill should cause Bianca unhappiness.

Why are you locking her away because of this fiend from hell, Signor Baptista? Why does the one daughter have to be punished for the other’s mouth?

Gentlemen, I’ve made my decision. That’s all there is to it. Go inside, Bianca.

And because I know how fond she is of music, playing her instruments, and poetry, I plan to hire live-in tutors for her. If either of you gentlemen knows anyone who would be suitable for the job, send him to me. I’ll pay well for good teachers. I don’t stint when it comes to educating my children. Goodbye, gentlemen. Katherina, you may stay. I have things to discuss with Bianca.

Stay out here? I don’t think so! Am I to be dictated to, like a child? Told when to come and where to go? No.

You can go straight to hell! What you have to offer is nothing anyone wants. Hortensio, our desire to be married isn’t so great that we can’t wait this out patiently. It’s tough on both of us, but I guess we’ll live. So long. But to prove my love for Bianca, I’m going to see if I can find a good tutor to give her lessons in the things she enjoys. If I do, I’ll send him to her father.

I’ll do the same. But wait—don’t go just yet, Signior Gremio. I know we’ve never exactly been allies, but it might be in both our interests, if you think about it, to put our heads together about one particular thing. That is, if we ever want to return to being rivals for Bianca’s love.

And that would be—?

To find a husband for her sister.

A husband? You mean a devil!

I mean a husband.

I say a devil. Do you really think there’s a man fool enough to marry into hell—however rich the father is?

Oh, I don’t know. Just because we wouldn’t want to put up with her tantrums, that doesn’t mean there aren’t guys who would, if we could find them. Guys who’d take her with all her faults, provided there were enough money involved.

I don’t know. All I know is I’d rather endure a public whipping every morning than put up with her—even with a big dowry.

The two choices are about equal, it’s true. But come, since we must be friends in the face of this new obstacle, let’s work together to find a husband for Baptista’s elder daughter, and thus free his younger daughter to have a husband, too. Then we can go back to fighting with each other. Happy the man that claims you, sweet Bianca! And may the best man win. What do you say, Signior Gremio?

Agreed. This imaginary suitor for Katherina—I’d buy him the best horse in Padua if he’d get here quickly, woo her, marry her, take her to bed, and rid the house of her. Let’s go.

Sir, is it possible that a person could fall in love so suddenly?

Oh, Tranio, until it happened to me, I never would have thought it possible. But now I confess it openly to you, Tranio. You are to me what Anna, Dido’s sister, was to the Queen of Carthage. I confide in you. I tell you, Tranio, I’m on fire, in agony. I’ll die if I can’t have this modest young girl for my wife. Advise me, Tranio—I know you can. Help me, Tranio—I know you will.

Master, this is no moment to lecture you. The heart won’t be reasoned with. If love has touched you, love has touched you—end of story. But, as the Roman Terence advises, now that you’re a captive, it’s time to buy back your freedom at the lowest possible cost.

Yes, you’re right. Please go on. I feel better already, and I know there’s more good advice where that came from.

Master, you were so focused on the girl herself, I wonder if you missed the main point here.

Oh no! I saw sweetness and beauty in her face of the kind that humbled great Jove. He saw it in Europa that time she brought him to his knees in Crete.

That’s all you noticed? You missed the part where her sister began to scold her and made such a ruckus that human ears could hardly stand it?

Tranio, I saw her coral-pink lips move and perfume the air with her breath. I saw nothing in her except what is virtuous and lovely.

(to the audience) I think it’s time to rouse him from his trance.—Wake up, sir! If you love the girl, it’s time to figure out how to win her. The way things stand, her older sister is so bitchy and difficult that the father can’t wait to get rid of her. But until he does, your sweetheart is grounded, locked up at home and not allowed any suitors.

Oh, Tranio, what a cruel father he is. Still, did you notice how ready he was to hire good tutors for her?

I did—and now I’ve got it!

Tranio, I think I’ve got it!

I’ll bet we’re both thinking the same thing, master.

Tell me your idea first.

You will pretend to be a schoolmaster and offer to teach the girl. Is that your plan?

It is. Do you think it would work?

No, not a chance. You’re supposed to be here in Padua studying. So who would fill in for you—pretend to be Vincentio’s son, live in his house, pore over his books, welcome his friends, and wine and dine his fellow expatriates from Pisa?

Enough! Don’t worry, I have it all figured out. No one has seen us yet, and no one knows what we look like—which of us is master and which servant. It’s obvious: You will be me, Tranio—live in my house, instruct the servants and do everything in my place just as I would. I, meanwhile, will impersonate some other made-up fellow—some guy from Florence or Naples, or some poor guy from Pisa. There! That’s a plan. Take off what you’re wearing and put on my hat and cloak.

Here comes Biondello. Where have you been, boy?

Where have I been? Where are you? Has Tranio stolen your clothes, master? Or have you stolen his? Have you both stolen each other’s? Please, what’s going on?

Come here, boy. It’s no time for jokes: sober up. Tranio and I have traded clothes to save my life. I killed a man in a fight since we came ashore, and I’m worried someone saw me. While I make my escape, I need you to wait on Tranio as though he were me. Understand?

Of course, sir. (to the audience) Not a word.

And you’re not to utter a syllable of Tranio’s name. “Tranio” is now “Lucentio.”

Lucky for him. Wish I could say the same.

I’d second your wish if it automatically meant that Lucentio could have Baptista’s youngest daughter. This is for your master’s sake, not mine. So watch your step when there are other people around. When we’re by ourselves you can call me “Tranio.” Everywhere else, address me as your master Lucentio.

Tranio, let’s go. One last thing, and this is up to you. You’ll have to woo Bianca like the rest. Don’t ask why. Just trust me—I know what I’m doing.

(to SLY) My lord, you’re falling asleep. You’re not paying attention to the play.

No, no. I am. Really. Very impressive. Is there any more, or is that it?

(speaking as SLY’s wife) My lord, we’ve only just got started.

And what an excellent piece of work it is, too, madam lady! I wish it were over.

Farewell, Verona! I’m off to visit my friends in Padua—particularly my best friend Hortensio. And I think this is his house. Here, you there, Grumio. Knock.

Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Has anyone offended your Worship?

Moron! I’m telling you to make a fist and pound.

Really, sir, I hardly think it would be appropriate for me to pound you.

Moron, here we are at the gate. Now put your fists to work, or I’ll put mine to work on your head!

My master is being difficult. If I do as he asks I think I know which one of us will be sorrier—and it’s not going to be him!

What are you standing there for! If you won’t knock, I’ll ring—and you’ll be singing along in falsetto!

(to the unseen mistress or master of the house) Help, mistress, help! My master has gone mad.

Next time maybe you’ll knock when I tell you, punk kid!

Say, what’s the trouble? If it isn’t my old friend Grumio—and my dear friend Petruchio! How’s everyone in Verona?

Hortensio, have you come to break up the fight? Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, if I may say so.

Alla nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato signor mio Petruchio! Get up, Grumio. We’ll settle this quarrel.

I don’t care what he told you in Latin. If this isn’t legal justification for me to leave his service, I don’t know what is. He tells me to knock him, pound him, and put my fists to work on him. Well, I ask you, was that any way for a servant to behave toward his master—especially when he’s clearly a bit crazy. I wish I had hit him. I think I’d feel a lot better.

He’s a worthless dog, Hortensio. I told him to knock at your gate and for the life of me could not get him to do it.

Knock at the gate? Oh, for Pete’s sake! Didn’t you clearly say “Knock,” “pound,” and “put your fists to work”? Now you say it was “Knock at the gate”?

Grumio, either leave or shut up. I’m warning you.

Easy, Petruchio. I’ll vouch for Grumio. It’s terrible—you two fighting! Faithful, funny old Grumio! You guys go way back! Now, my dear friend, what lucky wind blows you in from Verona?

The wind that scatters young men throughout the world, encouraging them to seek their fortunes some place other than home, where there’s little to be found in the way of experience. But to be brief, Hortensio, the situation is that my father, Antonio, is dead, and I have set off into this crazy world to see if I can marry well and make a good life for myself. I have money in my purse and property at home, so I’m off to see the world.

Petruchio, shall I be frank? I know where you can find a shrewish and unpleasant wife. I doubt you’d thank me in the end, but she’s rich, all right, very rich. But you’re too good a friend for me to wish her on you.

Hortensio, good friends like us can get by on a few words. If you can find a woman rich enough for me—because money is all I look for in a wife—let her be as ugly as Flotentius’ love, as old as the Sibyl, and as bad-tempered as Xanthippe. It wouldn’t matter one way or the other. I’ve come here in search of a rich wife. If I find a rich wife in Padua, I’ll have found a good wife in Padua.

(to HORTENSIO) He’s certainly frank, isn’t he, sir? Give him enough money and he’ll be happy with a puppet, a paper doll, or a diseased old hag without a tooth in her head. If she’s got money, what does it matter?

Petruchio, since the conversation’s gone this far, I may as well carry on with what I mentioned purely as a joke. I can help you find a wife who’s rich, young, beautiful, and reared in a manner fit for a gentlewoman. Her only flaw—and it’s a big one—is that she’s unbearable, a total witch, so much so that I wouldn’t think of marrying her myself, not even if I were in a worse fix than I am, not for a whole goldmine.

Hush, Hortensio. You don’t know what money can buy. Tell me her father’s name—that’s all I need. I will go after her even if her scolding is as deafening as thunder in an autumn rainstorm.

Her father is Baptista Minola, a pleasant and courteous gentleman. Her name is Katherina Minola, famous throughout Padua for her scolding tongue.

I don’t know her, but I know her father and he knew mine well. I won’t sleep until I see her, Hortensio. So I hope you’ll forgive my cutting short this first conversation of ours—unless you want to come with me.

(to HORTENSIO) Please, sir, let him go while he’s in this mood. Lord! If she knew him as well as I do, she’d realize how little effect a scolding has on him. At best she may come up with nine or ten abusive things to call him. That’s nothing. Once he starts on her, he’ll rant and rave on an epic scale. In fact, if she even tries to face him down, he’ll throw out a figure of speech that so disfigures her she’ll have no more eyes to see with than a cat. You don’t know him, sir.

Wait, Petruchio, I should go with you. My own “wealth” is in Baptista’s keeping. His youngest daughter, the beautiful Bianca, is the jewel of my life, and he keeps her hidden away from me and other rivals for her hand. Because he finds it so incredible—owing to those character deficiencies I mentioned before—that any man will ever come courting Katherina, Baptista has therefore issued this edict: that none shall be permitted to court Bianca until that Katherine the shrew finds a husband.

“Katherine the shrew!” That’s the worst thing you can call a young woman.

Now my friend Petruchio will help me out, presenting me to old Baptista as a schoolmaster for Bianca well-versed in music. I’ll disguise myself in somber robes. In this costume, I’ll be able to spend time with her alone, which will give me plenty of opportunity to court her.

Oh, very nice! See how the young folks conspire to fool the old folks!

Master, master, look! Who are these people?

Hush, Grumio. It is my rival for Bianca. Petruchio, let’s stand over here awhile.

(to the audience, indicating old GREMIO) Check out this stud! What a heartthrob!

(to LUCENTIO) Oh, all right, I’ve reviewed the list of books. But listen: I want them very handsomely bound—only books of love, make sure of that in any case. And see that you give her no other lessons. Do I make myself clear? Over and above what Signior Baptista pays you, I’ll tack on a bonus. Take these notes, too. And make sure they’re pleasantly perfumed. The lady they are meant for is sweeter than perfume itself. What are you planning to read her?

(speaking as CAMBIO) Whatever I read her, you can be sure that I’ll plead the case for your love as strongly as if you yourself stood there before her—and perhaps even a bit more successfully than you would do, sir, seeing as you’re not a scholar.

Oh, what an excellent thing this learning is!

(speaking to the audience) Oh, what an asinine thing this moron is!

(speaking so that only GRUMIO can hear) Silence, boy!

(speaking so that only GRUMIO can hear) Grumio, hush! (to GREMIO, who can’t hear him) God save you, Signior Gremio.

Good to see you, Signior Hortensio. Do you know where I’m going? To Baptista Minola’s house. I promised to look into schoolmasters for Miss Bianca, and luck has led me to this young man, perfectly suited in learning and fine manners, well read in poetry and other books—all of them good, I assure you.

That’s great. And I have met a gentleman who promises to help me find a good music tutor to instruct our lady love. I wouldn’t want to fall behind in my devotion to my beloved Bianca.

My beloved—as my actions will prove.

(speaking to the audience) As his moneybags will prove.

Gremio, this is no time to compete over how deeply we love Bianca. Be nice and listen to me a moment, and I’ll give you a piece of news that’s equally good for both of us. (presenting PETRUCHIO) Here is a gentleman I happened to meet who, if we can come to an arrangement that would be to his liking, is willing to undertake to woo fierce Katherine—yes, even willing to marry her, if the price is right.

That’s good, if he’ll really do it. Have you told him all her faults, Hortensio?

I know she is a hateful, brawling scold. If that’s all, gentlemen, I see no problem.

No? Tell me, friend. Where are you from?

Born in Verona. I’m old Antonio’s son. My father’s dead, and his fortune is mine now. I hope to see good days—and many of them.

Sir, such a life with such a wife is unlikely! But if you have the stomach for it, you’ll have all the help from me you need. Do you really mean to go after this wildcat?

Do I mean to go on breathing?

He’ll woo her or I’ll hang her.

Why did I come here if not for that? Do you think a little burst of noise can intimidate me—I, who have heard lions roar? I, who have survived storms at sea where the winds raged like wild animals? I, who have heard the rumble of guns in battle—and thunder in the sky (heaven’s version of artillery). Have I not stood in the middle of a battle, with loud calls to arms, horses neighing, and trumpets sounding all around me? And you worry how I’ll react to a woman’s tongue, which isn’t even as loud as the pop! of a chestnut roasting in some farmer’s oven? Please. Scare children with your bugaboos.

Because he’s not afraid of them.

Listen, Hortensio. I think this gentleman’s arrival could be most fortunate—both for himself and for us.

I promised him that we would all chip in and take care of the wooing expenses, whatever they come to.

Absolutely—so long as he gets the girl.

I wish I could be as certain of a good dinner.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) Greetings, gentlemen. May I be so bold as to ask the fastest way to Signior Baptista Minola’s house?

The old man with the two pretty daughters? Is that the man you want?

(speaking as LUCENTIO) The very one, Biondello.

Pardon, sir, I hope you’re not looking for the daughter—

(speaking as LUCENTIO) I might be looking for both the daughter and her father. What’s it to you?

But not the woman who scolds, anyway, I hope.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) I’m not a fan of scolds, my friend. Come, Biondello.

(speaking quietly) Nice work, Tranio!

Sir, a word before you go. Are you a suitor to the girl we speak of, yes or no?

What if I am? Is there a problem?

Not if you go away, there isn’t.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) Well, it seems to me that the streets are as much mine as yours.

But she isn’t.

And why is that, please?

Because, if you must know, she’s been chosen by Signior Gremio.

Because she’s been chosen by Signior Hortensio.

Wait a minute, gentlemen. Be good enough to hear me out. Baptista is a noble gentleman—one to whom my father is not completely unknown—and lovely as his daughter is, she is entitled to any number of suitors—myself among them. The beautiful Helen of Troy had a thousand suitors. Let Bianca have one more—anyway, she’s got one. Lucentio shall join the ranks, even if Paris himself comes to woo her.

This fellow will out-talk us all.

(speaking as CAMBIO) Well, let him. He’ll talk himself out, soon.

Hortensio, what’s all this about?

(to TRANIO) Forgive me for asking, but have you ever actually seen Baptista’s daughter?

(speaking as LUCENTIO) No, but I hear he has two, the one as famous for her scolding tongue as the other is for her modesty and beauty.

The first one’s mine, so hands off!

Yes, leave that labor to great Hercules—it’s worse than the previous twelve put together.

(to TRANIO) Sir, let me be clear. As far as the youngest daughter, the one you were asking about, is concerned, the father refuses any suitors access to her. He will not promise her to any man until the elder sister is married. Then and only then will the younger be free to marry.

(as LUCENTIO) If that’s the case, then you’re the man to help us, me along with the rest. And if you carry it off and break the ice—win the older and make the younger accessible to us—whoever winds up with her will not be such a boor as to be ungrateful, I’m sure.

Sir, that’s well said and well thought out. Now, since you count yourself among Bianca’s suitors, you must—as we already have—pay this gentlemen to whom we are all so indebted.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) I’ll ante up, certainly! And on that note, let’s all pass the time this afternoon drinking rounds to our mistress’ health and following the example of legal adversaries, who fight tooth and nail in court but eat and drink as friends.

An excellent motion. Let’s go.

I second that motion. So be it. Petruchio, I’m buying.

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.

(speaking as CAMBIO) Restrain yourself, fiddler! You’re too insistent. Have you forgotten how her sister Katherine thanked you for your lessons?

(speaking as LITIO) Quarrelsome teacher! This lady is the queen of heavenly harmony. Therefore allow me to claim her attention first, and after we have spent an hour on music you can have equal time for your lecture.

(as CAMBIO) Ridiculous ass! You’re not even educated enough to know why music was created. Wasn’t it to refresh the mind of man after his studies and daily toil? Therefore allow me to read philosophy with her, and then, when I am finished, indulge in your harmony.

(as LITIO) Sir, you go too far! I will not stand for it!

Gentlemen, it seems to me you’re both out of line to be laying down the law about things that are really up to me. I am no schoolboy, and I won’t be dictated to with hours and schedules. I’ll have my lessons in the order and manner I prefer. So to cut short this argument, let’s figure this out. (to HORTENSIO) You take your instrument and play awhile. He’ll be finished with his lecture before you’ve even tuned it.

(as LITIO) You’ll leave his lecture when I’m in tune?

(to himself) That will be never. (to HORTENSIO) Tune your instrument.

Where did we leave off?

Here, madam:

Hic ibat Simois, hic est Sigeia tellus,

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

Translate.

Hic ibat, as I told you before, Simois, I am Lucentio, hic est, son of Vincentio of Pisa, Sigeia tellus, disguised as a teacher so as to win your love, Hic steterat, and the fellow who comes to court you calling himself “Lucentio,” Priami, is my servant Tranio, regia, pretending to be me, celsa senis, so we can get the better of the foolish old man.

(as LITIO) Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

Let’s hear. (he plays) Oooh, no! The high note’s off.

(as CAMBIO) Spit on the tuning-peg, man, and try again.

Now let me see if I can translate it. Hic ibat Simois, I don’t know you, hic est Sigeia tellus, I don’t trust you, Hic steterat Priami, don’t let him hear you, regia, don’t take anything for granted, celsa senis, don’t give up.

(as LITIO) Madam, now it really is in tune.

(as CAMBIO) All but the low note.

(as LITIO) The low note’s fine; it’s this low-minded dog that’s out of tune! (to himself) How touchy and insistent this fellow is! I’m beginning to think he’s wooing my darling. Little professor! I’ll have to keep an eye on you.

(to LUCENTIO) In time I may come to believe you, but I’m wary.

There’s no need to be, really, for— (he breaks off, seeing that HORTENSIO is listening, and pretends to go back to the Latin lesson)—“Aeacides” is just another name for Ajax. He gets it from his grandfather.

You’re my teacher, so I must believe you. Otherwise, I would have to argue the point with you. But let it go.—Now, Litio, it’s your turn. I hope, sir, that you’re not angry that I’ve been equally attentive to you both!

(as LITIO, to LUCENTIO) You can take a break. Leave us alone, why don’t you? I don’t teach music for a threesome.

(as CAMBIO) Well, aren’t we strict! Okay, I guess I’ll have to wait. (to himself) And watch, too. For unless I’m very much mistaken, our fancy musician is turning romantic!

(as LITIO) Madam, before you take up the instrument or begin to learn the fingering, I must teach you certain fundamentals. To help you remember the scales, I’ve come up with a little trick—more fun and effective than those that any of my colleagues use. Here, I’ve written it out.

I think I know my scales by now!

(speaking as LITIO) Well, read Hortensio’s scale anyway.

(reading) “I am the scale, the basis of all harmony.

A re, Im here to argue for Hortensio’s love;

B mi, Bianca, take him for your husband,

C fa ut, he loves you with all affection;

D sol re, I have one clef but only two notes;

E la mi, have pity on me, or I’ll die.”

You call this a scale? I don’t like it. I don’t go in for these new-fangled methods. I like doing things the old-fashioned way.

Mistress, your father requests that you leave your books and come help decorate your sister’s room. You know tomorrow is her wedding day.

Farewell to both of you, dear teachers. I have to go.

(as CAMBIO) In that case, mistress, there’s no reason for me to stay.

But there’s reason for me to look more closely at this schoolmaster. He acts like a man in love. But if Bianca is so vulgar as to stoop for any man she sees, the hell with her. Whoever wants her can have her. The first time I catch her straying, it’s over. End of story.

(to TRANIO as LUCENTIO) Signior Lucentio, this is the day appointed for Katherine and Petruchio’s wedding, but there’s no sign of the groom. What will people say? To have the priest right here, ready to perform the marriage ceremony, and be missing a bridegroom! What do you think about our humiliation, Lucentio?

The humiliation is all mine. You forced me to accept this man against my will, this fancy con artist who was in such a hurry to get engaged. He has no intention of marrying me. I knew it—I told you. The whole thing was a joke. He pretends to be this simple, backward guy, but it’s all a gag to amuse his witty friends. He goes around proposing to women—they set a date, he gets introduced around, they send out the invitations and make a public announcement, but he has no intention of going through with it. So now everyone will point at me and say, “Look, there goes the wife of that comedian Petruchio—if he could be bothered to marry the pathetic thing!”

(speaking as LUCENTIO) No, no, I assure you, Katherine—and you, too, Baptista—Petruchio means well, whatever circumstance prevents him from keeping his word. He’s rough-edged, but he’s a good man, and though he likes a joke, he’s not a liar.

Maybe, but I wish I’d never laid eyes on him.

Go, daughter. I cannot blame you now for weeping. An insult like this would try the patience of a saint, let alone a hot-tempered shrew like you!

Master, master! I have news—old news such as you never heard before!

You say you have news that’s old? How can that be?

Well, is it not news that Petruchio’s coming?

Is he here?

Why, no, sir.

What then?

He is coming.

When will he be here?

When he stands where I am and sees you there.

(as LUCENTIO) So what’s the old news?

Well, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old vest, a pair of old pants turned inside out, unmatched boots that have been used as spittoons, one buckled, the other laced; a rusty old sword from the town armory with a broken hilt and no scabbard. He’s got on worn-out garters and is riding a swayback old horse with a moth-eaten saddle, stirrups from two different sets, a bad hip, swollen glands, lockjaw, leg ulcers, bedsores, arthritis, jaundice, a hernia, hives, worms, cancer, a mossy overbite, and post-nasal drip. He’s knock-kneed too. His bit’s lopsided and his cardboard bridle, which breaks when you pull on it, is taped in a few places. The saddle strap is made out of patchwork, and the strap that goes under his tail to keep the saddle in place is velvet, with the initials of some woman written in studs.

Who comes with him?

Just his servant, sir—pretty much got up like the horse, with a linen stocking on one leg and a big woolen booty on the other, a pair of red and blue garters, and an old hat with something no one’s ever seen before where the feather should be. He’s dressed like a freak, a total freak, and not at all like a proper footman or a gentleman’s valet.

(as LUCENTIO) He must be in a strange mood to go in for this fashion—though from time to time he has been known to dress down.

I am glad he’s coming, however he’s dressed.

Why, sir, he’s not coming.

Didn’t you just say he was?

Who? Petruchio?

Yes, Petruchio.

No, I said his horse is coming, with him on its back.

Well, that’s the same thing.

No, by Saint Jamy,

I’ll bet you a penny!

A man and his horse

Aren’t the same person—

Not that there’s much difference.

Whoa! Where is everybody?

You are welcome, sir.

I don’t feel well.

I don’t notice you limping.

(as LUCENTIO) And I would like it if you were a bit more formally dressed.

Isn’t it better this way? But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride? (to BAPTISTA) How is my father-in-law? Gentlemen, you seem displeased. What’s everyone staring at? You look as if you’d seen something unusual—a comet or something.

Why, sir, you know this is your wedding day. First we were sad because we were afraid you wouldn’t come. Now we’re even sadder to see that you’ve come so unprepared. For heaven’s sake, take off that get-up. It’s a disgrace to a man of your social position and an insult to this solemn ceremony.

And tell us what extraordinary occurrence made you so late for your wedding and drove you to present yourself in an outfit that’s so—not typical of you.

It’s a long story—and tough to listen to. It’s enough that I’m here according to my promise, though I will have to deviate from it to some extent—for reasons which, when I explain them later, you’ll understand completely. But where is Kate? We’re wasting time here. It’s getting late and time we were in church.

Don’t greet your bride in these disgraceful clothes. Go to my room and put on something of mine.

Not me. I’ll see her like this.

But surely you’re not planning to marry her in what you’re wearing!

Yes, just like this. But enough talk. It’s me she’s marrying and not my clothes. Though I expect she’ll wear me out more quickly than I’ll wear out what I’m wearing—which will be good for her and even better for me! But what a fool I am to stand here chatting when I should bid good morning to my bride and seal the bargain with a loving kiss.

He must be wearing this crazy outfit for some reason. I’ll try to persuade him to put on something more appropriate before going to the church, if it’s at all possible.

I’ll go too and make sure that happens.

But sir, you need to get her father’s consent as well as her love. And to that end, as I explained to your worship, I’m looking for a man—any man, it doesn’t matter; we’ll suit him to our purpose—who can pretend to be your father, Vincentio. And he’ll guarantee the dowry—for even more money than I’ve promised on your behalf. This way, you’ll get your wish and marry sweet Bianca with her father’s consent and with the least possible hassle.

If my fellow schoolmaster weren’t keeping such a close watch on her, I’d think about eloping. Then it wouldn’t matter what anyone said—I’d keep what’s mine, whatever the rest of the world said.

Don’t worry, I’m looking into that too. I’m on top of the situation—monitoring it very closely. We’ll outwit them all—that old geezer, Gremio; the suspicious father, Minola; the prim musician lover, Litio—all for the sake of my master, Lucentio.

Signior Gremio, are you coming from the church?

As eagerly as I ever came from school.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) And will the bride and bridegroom be here soon?

Bridegroom? This guy is more like the groom who cleans the stable—a grumbling groom at that, as the poor girl is discovering.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) You mean he’s worse than she is? That’s not possible!

No, he’s a devil—a devil, I tell you! An utter fiend.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) No, she’s a devil—a devil, I tell you. The devil’s grandmother.

Why, she’s a lamb, a dove, a child compared to him! Picture this: when the priest asked Katherine if she would have him, he answered, “Hell, yes!” and swore so loud that the priest drops the prayer book. Everyone froze, and as the priest stooped to pick it up again the lunatic bridegroom smacked him so hard that the priest and book went flying! Then he said, “Now pick them up—if anyone dares.”

(as LUCENTIO) What did the girl say when the priest got up?

She trembled and shook because he stamped and swore and carried on as though the vicar were trying to put something over on him. Finally, the ceremony done, he called for wine. “A health!” he shouted, like some sailor aboard ship, carousing with his mates after a storm. Then he chugs the wine and throws the dregs in the sexton’s face. Why? Because the fellow’s beard looked thin, he said, and it seemed to be asking him for the dregs while he was drinking. Next he slung his arm around the bride’s neck and kissed her with such a smack that when they parted the sound of their lips made the whole church echo. That was the limit for me. I got out of there as fast as I could. I know the rest of the crowd isn’t far behind me. It’s disgraceful! You never saw such a mockery of a marriage in your life!

There go the minstrels. They’ve started up.

Gentlemen and friends, thanks for bothering to come. I know you expected me to stay to dinner and have prepared a celebratory feast, but as it happens I’m called away. So let me say goodbye.

You’re not thinking of leaving tonight, surely?

Not tonight—today. If you knew the reason, you’d understand and would urge me to go rather than stay. Good friends, I thank you all for coming to see me wed this patient, sweet, virtuous wife. Dine with my father and drink a health to me. I have to leave. Goodbye to you all.

(as LUCENTIO) Please, stay till after dinner.

Can’t do it.

As a favor to me?

Nope.

As a favor to me?

I’m delighted.

Delighted to stay?

Delighted to hear you ask so nicely, but I won’t stay in any case.

Look, if you love me, stay.

Grumio, get me my horse.

Yes, sir, they’re ready. They’ve eaten themselves sick.

All right, then, do what you like. I won’t leave today. Not tomorrow, either. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. The door is open, sir. Feel free to use it. Go on, wear your boots out! As for me, I’ll leave when I like. If you’re this high-handed to start with, I can imagine how arrogant and arbitrary you’ll be as a husband.

Calm down, Kate. Please don’t be angry.

I will be angry. What business is it of yours?—Father, be quiet. He’ll stay as long as I say.

Okay, now it starts!

Gentlemen, on to the bridal dinner. I see a woman may be made a fool of if she doesn’t have nerve enough to stand up for herself.

They shall go in to the bridal dinner, Kate—they’re yours to command. Obey the bride, guests! Go to the banquet: revel, feast, and carouse! Drink yourselves silly toasting her virginity! Be wild and merry—or go to hell. But as for my bonny Kate, she must come with me. No, don’t puff out your chests and stamp and stare wonderingly. I will be master of what belongs to me. She is my property, one of my possessions—just like my house and everything in it, and my field, my barn, my horse, my ox, my donkey—anything of mine you care to name. Here she is; I dare you to touch her! I’ll sue anyone in Padua who tries to stand in my way, no matter how powerful he is.—Grumio, draw your sword! We are surrounded by thieves. Rescue your mistress! Prove yourself a man! Don’t be afraid, sweet girl, I won’t let them touch you. I’ll protect you, Kate, against a million of them.

No, let them go. They’re certainly a peaceful couple!

If they hadn’t left soon, I would have died laughing.

(as LUCENTIO) Of all the mad matches, this is by far the craziest.

(as CAMBIO) Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister?

That since she’s mad herself, she’s married a madman.

I guarantee you, Petruchio’s going to suffer from his Kate.

Neighbors and friends, though we don’t have anyone for the bride and bridegroom’s places at the table, you know there’s nothing missing in the feast itself. (to TRANIO) Lucentio, you shall assume the bridegroom’s place and let Bianca take her sister’s seat.

(as LUCENTIO) Shall sweet Bianca practice how to be a bride?

She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go in.

To hell with all worn-out horses, all crazy masters, and all bad roads. Was a man ever beaten as much as me? Was a man ever as dirty as me? Was a man ever so tired? I have been sent on ahead to light a fire, and they are coming after to warm themselves. It’s a good thing I’m like a little pot and warm up quickly, or else my lips themselves would freeze and stick to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and my heart would freeze in my belly, before I managed to get thawed out. I’ll warm myself by blowing on the fire. A taller man than I would catch cold in weather like this. Hey! Curtis! Hello!

Who calls so coldly?

A piece of ice. Trust me, you could slide all the way from my shoulder to my heel taking no more of a running start than the distance between my head and my neck. Start the fire, good Curtis.

Are my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

Yes, yes, Curtis, so hurry up and start the fire. Leave out the water.

Is she as fiery a shrew as they say?

Well she was, good Curtis, before this frost. But you know how winter tames man, woman, and beast. And it’s tamed my old master and my new mistress and myself, my good colleague.

Who are you calling “beast,” midget. You’re no bigger than three inches!

Three inches? Really? Your horn is a foot long, and I’m at least that size. Now are you going to make a fire, or am I going to have to report you to our mistress, whose hand, now that she is herself at hand, you’ll be feeling soon. You’ll find it cold comfort, but that’s what you get for being slow with your warming duties.

So tell me, Grumio, how goes the world?

Cold, Curtis. It’s a cold world, except for people who have to start fires. Therefore, do your duty and take your reward, because my master and mistress are nearly frozen to death.

The fire is ready. So go on, tell me the news.

“Why, Jack boy, ho boy!” and all the news you want.

Oh, you’re just so funny.

Well, make a fire, then. I think I’m getting delirious. Where’s the cook? Is supper ready? Is the house fixed up, the floor covered, the cobwebs swept out of the corners, the servingmen in their new work clothes and the household servants each in his wedding suit? Are all the cups and glasses in their places, the tablecloths laid out—everything in order?

Everything’s ready. So tell me what’s been going on.

Well, first of all, my horse is tired and my master and mistress have had a falling out.

How?

From their saddles into the dirt—but that’s another story.

Well, let’s have it, Grumio.

Lean forward.

Here.

There!

This is to feel the news, not hear it.

That’s what makes it “sensitive” news. I was just knocking to see if anyone was home. Now, I’ll begin: first, we came down a steep hill, my master riding behind my mistress—

Both on one horse?

What’s the difference?

Well, the difference of a horse!

Oh, tell it yourself if you’re so smart. It’s too bad. If you hadn’t made me angry, you would have heard all about how her horse fell with her under it, how swampy the place was, too, and how she was covered in mud, and how he left her like that, with the horse on top of her, and how he beat me because her horse stumbled, and how she waded through the dirt to pull him off me, and how he swore, how she prayed—this woman who never prayed before—and how I yelled, and how the horses ran away, and how her bridle broke, and how I lost my riding crop, and many other things worth telling, which now will all be lost to memory, and you’ll go to your grave ignorant.

By the sound of it, he’s a bigger shrew than she is.

Yes—as you and the rest will find out as soon as he’s home. But why am I telling you this? Get them in here—Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest. Tell them to slick down their hair, brush their blue coats, and make sure their socks match. Have them click their heels together and don’t dare touch a hair of the master’s horse’s tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?

They are.

Get them in here.

(calling offstage) Hey! Does anyone hear me? Hey! You have to come and greet the master and face the new mistress.

She already has a face.

Yeah, so?

You just said they had to face her.

I meant they had to give her credit.

She’s not going to borrow money from them.

Welcome home, Grumio.

What’s up, Grumio?

Hey, Grumio!

My man Grumio!

So what’s the story, old boy?

Welcome yourself!—What’s up with you?—Hey to you!—So much for greetings. Now, my well-dressed friends, is everything ready and in order?

Everything’s ready. How soon will the master be here?

Any minute. Probably here already. So be careful, and don’t—God! Quiet, I hear him coming.

Where are those bastards? Where is the boy who’s supposed to help me get off my horse and take him to the stable? Where is Nathaniel? Where’s Gregory? Where’s Philip?

Here, here, sir! Here, sir!

“Here, sir! Here, sir! Here, sir! Here, sir!” You stupid, unpolished dolts! I get no service, no respect, no attention! Where is the fool I sent on ahead?

Here, sir, as foolish as ever.

You unwashed farmworker! You bastard workhorse drudge! Didn’t I tell you to meet me outside and bring these morons with you?

Nathaniel’s coat was being fixed, sir. And one of Gabriel’s shoes had a broken heel. And Peter couldn’t find a matching hat. And Walter couldn’t get his dagger out of its sheath. Only Adam, Rafe, and Gregory were ready. The rest were just a mess—but such as they are, sir, they’re here to welcome you.

Go, blockheads, go, and bring my supper to me.

(singing) Where is the life I led until recently? Where are those—Sit down, Kate, make yourself at home.—Come on, come on, come on, come on.

Did I say later? I said now!—Smile, Kate! Be happy.—Get my boots off, you apes! You idiots, now! (singing)It was a friar in robes of gray, who walked along the road one day:—(a servant tries to take off PETRUCHIO’s boots) Stop, you moron! You’re twisting my foot! Take that, and see you do a better job with the other one. (he strikes the servant) Be happy, Kate!—Bring me some water! Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Hey boy, go tell my cousin Ferdinand to get in here.

You’ll love this guy, Kate—anyway, you’d better! Where are my slippers? Can we have some water please here?—

Come and wash, Kate, make yourself at home. Son of a bitch, you spilled it! (he strikes the servant)

Take it easy! Please! It was just an accident!

He’s a son of a bitch, a moron, a total jerk.—Come sit down, Kate, I know you must be hungry. Will you say grace, sweet Kate, or shall I?—What is this? Mutton?

Yes.

Who brought it out here?

I did.

It’s burnt. The whole thing is burnt. You bastards! Where is that moron of a cook? You devils! How dare you serve it to me this way! There, take it all back—plates, cups, the whole thing. (throws the meat and everything else around the stage) You careless blockheads and unwashed slaves! I heard that! I’ll deal with you in a minute.

Please, dear, calm down. The meat was fine if you wanted to eat it.

And I’m telling you it was burnt and dried out. I’m not allowed to eat overcooked meat. It gives me indigestion and that makes me irritable. Very, very irritable.Better for us to go hungry, since we’re both hotheaded, than for us to eat meat that’s been cooked too long. But don’t worry, tomorrow it will get straightened out. Tonight we’ll go without food. Come, I’ll show you your bridal chamber.

Peter, did you ever see anything like it?

He’s giving her a taste of her own medicine.

Where is he?

In her room, lecturing her on the virtues of self-control. He rants and rails and swears and she, poor thing, doesn’t know how to stand or look or speak. She sits like a person who’s just woken up from a dream. Look out, he’s coming!

Well, I’ve begun my reign with a carefully thought-out plan, and I have every hope of succeeding. My falcon is now hungry and unfed and must not be given enough to eat until she comes to me, for if her hunger is satisfied, she’ll pay no attention to the bait. I have another plan to make my bird come to me and recognize her owner’s call is to keep her from sleeping—

the way trainers do with young hawks that flutter and flap and will not obey. She had no food today and will have none. Last night she got no sleep, and she won’t get any tonight. Just as I did with the meat, I’ll make up some problem with the way the bed is made, and throw the pillow one way and the cushion the other, and the blanket over here and the sheets over there. And through all the shouting and fuss, I’ll swear that it’s all out of love for her. The end result will be that she’ll sit up all night. And if she starts to drop off, I’ll rant and yell until I wake her up. This is how to kill a wife with kindness. And this way I’ll cure her wild and willful nature. If anyone here knows a better way to tame a shrew, speak up, please. It would be much appreciated.

(as LUCENTIO) I don’t believe it, Litio. It’s not possible that Bianca could prefer another man to me. I’ve seen the way she behaves.

(as LITIO) You want proof of what I’m telling you? Stand right here and watch this fellow’s “lesson.” (they stand off to one side)

(as CAMBIO) Well, mistress, are you learning from what you’re reading?

What are you reading, teacher? Answer me that first.

(as CAMBIO) I’m reading the book I know best—The Art of Love

I hope you’re an expert in your field.

(as CAMBIO) Well, my dear, you’re the mistress of my heart in any case!

(as LITIO) Quick work for schoolwork! How do you explain that? I though you said your precious Bianca loved no one better than you, Lucentio!

(as LUCENTIO) Oh spiteful love! Faithless womanhood! It’s incredible, Litio!

Let me come clean. I’m not really Litio. I’m not even a musician, really. In fact, I refuse to go on with this charade for a woman who would choose a lower-class guy like this over a gentleman of my stature. My name is Hortensio, sir.

(as LUCENTIO) Signior Hortensio, I’ve often heard of your total devotion to Bianca. So, now that I’ve seen with my own eyes proof of her worthlessness, I’m willing to join you in swearing her off for good, if you like.

Look how they kiss and carry on! Signior Lucentio, it’s a deal. I hereby swear to have nothing more to do with this girl. I formally declare her unworthy of all the attention and expense I have wasted on her.

And I hereby make the same promise—never to marry her, not even if she begs me. The hell with her! Look how she carries on with him! It’s revolting!

I wish all her lovers had given her up. Well, to be on the safe side—so I don’t go back on my promise—I plan to get myself married to a wealthy widow within the next three days. She’s been after me for years—the way I’ve been for this proud, haughty hag. Farewell, then, Signior Lucentio. From now on, goodness in women, not superficial beauty, will win my heart. I bid you all goodbye. I’ve made up my mind, and I’m going to stick to it.

Miss Bianca, may you be blessed with all the happiness you deserve. No, I’ve caught you out, my dear. You’re busted. Hortensio and I have given you up.

You can’t mean it, Tranio! Have you both really given me up?

Yes, ma’am, we have.

So Litio’s out of the picture.

He’s going after a young widow. He says he’ll court and win her in a day.

Well, good for him!

Yeah, and he’s going to tame her.

Is that what he says?

Yep. He’s gone to study at the taming school.

The taming school? Is there such a place?

Yes, ma’am. Petruchio runs it. There he teaches piles of tricks for taming a shrew and her tongue.

Master, master, I’ve been on the lookout so long, I’m ready to fall down dead—but I’ve got one, finally! There’s a trustworthy old fellow coming down the hill who will do the job.

What does he look like, Biondello?

A merchant or a schoolmaster, sir. Well, I don’t know exactly, but his clothes are respectable, and to judge from his face and walk, he’s old enough to be Lucentio’s father.

And what about him, Tranio?

If he’s an easy mark and buys my story, I think I can get him to pose as Vincentio—and be as ready to vouch for you with Baptista Minola as the real Vincentio would. Go, take your sweetheart and leave him to me.

May God keep you well, sir.

(as LUCENTIO) And you too, sir. Welcome. Are you going far, or is this your destination?

This is it, for now. Then, in a week or two, I’ll continue on as far as Rome, then on to Tripoli, God willing.

(speaking as LUCENTIO) What country are you from, if I may ask?

Mantua.

(as LUCENTIO) Mantua, sir? Oh Lord, I hope not. And coming to Padua? Do you want to get killed?

Killed? Why? That would be a little extreme!

It’s a capital offense for anyone from Mantua to come to Padua. Didn’t you know? The Duke of Padua has publicly proclaimed it. He’s feuding with your duke, and all ships from Mantua are being held up at Venice. It’s strange that you haven’t heard. There are signs up all over town—but I guess it’s because you’ve only just arrived.

Oh dear, oh dear. This is very bad, very bad. I have promissory notes from Florence that I have to deliver.

(as LUCENTIO) Well, look, just to be nice I’ll help you out and give you some advice to boot. First tell me, though—have you ever been to Pisa?

Oh yes, sir, I have often been to Pisa—Pisa, City of Wise Men.

(as LUCENTIO) There’s one of them called Vincentio? Do you know him?

I’ve heard of him but I’ve never met him. A merchant of unheard-of wealth.

(as LUCENTIO) He is my father, sir, and I have to tell you—you look a little like him.

(speaking to the audience) As much as an apple looks like an oyster, but whatever.

(as LUCENTIO) Under the circumstance, to save your life, here’s what I’m willing to do—and it’s actually not an unlucky thing that you happen to look like Sir Vincentio. We’ll pass you off as him—you can assume his name and reputation and stay in my house. You just have to act your part, you understand? You’ll stay here in the city until you’ve taken care of your business. If this is kindness, you’re welcome to it.

Oh sir, I accept. And I’ll be eternally grateful to you.

(as LUCENTIO) Then come with me and we’ll set it up. And, by the way, I should probably tell you: my father himself is coming any day to vouch for me in the matter of a dowry—a marriage contract between me and the daughter of a fellow named Baptista. I’ll fill you in on the whole situation. Come, let’s go and get your costume.

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.

(as LUCENTIO) Sir, this is the house. Would you like me to ring?

Yes, certainly. Unless I am mistaken, Signior Baptista may remember me from the Pegasus in Genoa, where we both stayed twenty years ago.

(as LUCENTIO) Fine, fine. Just play your part and act as serious as a father should.

Of course I will.

But, sir, here comes your servant. Better fill him in.

(as LUCENTIO) Don’t worry about him.—You there, Biondello, now act your part convincingly. Behave as though this were the real Vincentio.

Don’t worry about me.

(as LUCENTIO) And did you take the message to Baptista?

I told him that your father was in Venice, and that you expected him to arrive in Padua today.

(as LUCENTIO) Good lad! Here, buy yourself a drink on me.

(He gives BIONDELLO some money.)

Here comes Baptista. Places, everyone!

Signior Baptista, I’m glad to see you.—Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of. I hope you’ll be a good father to me now. Give me Bianca for my inheritance.

(as VINCENTIO) Hush, son.—Sir, may I? Having come to Padua to collect some debts, my son Lucentio acquainted me with a serious matter, namely the love between your daughter and himself. Now, since I’ve heard good reports of you, and in view of the love between your daughter and my son, I’m willing to give my consent to his marriage right away. So, if you think you can put up with no worse a man than I am, you’ll find me willing, pending some agreement, to see your daughter betrothed to him. I can’t haggle with you, Signior Baptista. I have too much respect for you.

Sir, pardon me for what I am about to say. I appreciate your frankness and your brevity. It’s true that your son Lucentio here loves my daughter, and she loves him—or else they’re putting on quite an act. Therefore, provided that you assure me that you will treat your son as a father should and offer my daughter a sufficient dowry, we’ll call it a match and be done with it. Your son will have my consent to marry my daughter.

(as LUCENTIO) Thank you, sir. Where can we draw up the necessary papers and get this settled?

Not in my house, Lucentio. My servants might overhear, and old Gremio is still hanging around, so we might be interrupted.

(as LUCENTIO) Then at my place, if you like. That’s where my father’s staying. We can get everything sorted out in private there tonight. Send your servant for Bianca. Mine shall go and fetch the notary. The only drawback is that, with such short notice, we’ll be able to offer you only modest refreshment.

This is all very acceptable.—Cambio, hurry home and tell Bianca to get ready right away and, if you don’t mind, tell her what’s happened: that Lucentio’s father has arrived in Padua, and that she’s likely to become Lucentio’s wife.

I hope with all my heart she will!

(as LUCENTIO) Forget about your heart and get busy.—Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? You’ll be welcome, though dinner will probably be only one course. We’ll make it up to you in Pisa.

I’ll come with you.

Cambio.

What is it, Biondello?

You saw my master wink and laugh at you?

What about it?

Nothing. It’s just that he left me here behind to interpret his signs and signals.

Please, educate me.

Here’s the deal: we’re safe on the Baptista front. He’s talking with the bogus father about the bogus son.

And so—?

You are to bring his daughter to the supper.

And then?

The old priest at Saint Luke’s Church is at your command at all hours.

And what of all this?

I don’t know, except they are busy with some phony guarantee. So go and put your stamp on the girl. Go to the church: take the priest, the clerk, and some reasonably honest witnesses. If this isn’t what you’ve been hoping for, I have no more to say except that you ought to say goodbye to Bianca forever.

Listen, Biondello—

I can’t stay. I knew a girl who was married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit. It could happen to you. Farewell, sir. My master has instructed me to go to Saint Luke’s to tell the priest to be ready in case you should show up with your better half.

I may. I will if she likes the idea. She will be pleased. Then why am I worried? Oh well, whatever. I’ll ask her straight out. It will be hard if “Cambio” loses her.

Come, let’s continue on toward your father’s house. Good Lord, how bright and splendid is the moon tonight!

The moon? You mean the sun! It is not nighttime now.

I say it’s the moon that shines so bright.

I know it’s the sun that shines so bright.

Now, by my mother’s son, and that’s me, it will be moon or star or whatever I want before I’ll travel to your father’s house. (to servants) Go return our horses.— Constantly contradicted and contradicted, and nothing but contradicted!

(to KATHERINE) Say what he wants or we’ll never go.

Since we’ve come this far, please—let’s continue on. And whatever it is—moon or sun or anything you like—if you want to call it a tea candle, that’s what it is as far as I’m concerned. From now on, I promise.

I say it’s the moon.

I know it’s the moon.

Well, you’re a liar, then. It’s the blessed sun.

Then God be praised, it is the blessed sun. But it is not the sun when you say it is not, and the moon changes according to your mind. Whatever you want to call a thing, that’s what it is—and that’s what it will always be for me.

Petruchio, do whatever you like. You’ve won.

Well, onward, then. That’s how things should be—straight and smooth. But, hang on! I hear someone coming.

(to VINCENTIO) Good morning, young miss, where are you going?—Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly, have you ever seen a young gentlewoman blooming more with health? The way the shades of white and red compete in her complexion. Which of the stars in heaven shine with such beauty as the two eyes that sparkle in that heavenly face? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you.—Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty.

(speaking so that only the audience can hear) He will drive the man mad pretending he thinks he’s a woman.

Young budding virgin, fair and pure and sweet, where are you off to? Or where do you live? Your parents are lucky to have such a lovely child. And luckier still is the man who gets to be your husband and share your bed.

Why, dear me, Kate! I hope you haven’t lost your mind. This is not a maiden, as you say, but an old man—wrinkled, faded, and withered.

Sir, pardon my imperfect eyes, which have been so blinded by the sun that everything I look at appears green. Now I can see that you’re an elderly gentleman. Do forgive me for my crazy error.

Do, good old grandfather, and while you’re at it, tell us which way you’re traveling. If we’re all headed in the same direction, we’d love your company.

Well, sir, and you, witty lady, who gave me quite a turn with your strange talk, my name is Vincentio, my hometown Pisa, and I am traveling to Padua to visit a son of mine whom I haven’t seen in a long while.

What is his name?

Lucentio, sir.

A fortunate coincidence—more fortunate for your son. I can now call you “father” in a legal sense, not just out of respect for your age. The sister of my wife, this lady here, is married to your son. And there’s no need for wonder or worry. His bride is well thought of, with a rich dowry and noble birth—a fit wife for any nobleman. Let me embrace the father of Lucentio, and then we’ll journey on to see your son, who will rejoice at your arrival.

Is all this true? Or is this your way of livening up your travels—playing jokes on people you meet on the way?

I assure you, sir, it’s true.

Look, come along with us and see the truth for yourself. Our earlier joke has made you understandably suspicious.

Well, Petruchio, all this is very encouraging. I’ll visit my widow now, and if she proves difficult to manage, I’ll know how to make myself impossible.

Quickly and quietly, sir. The priest is already there.

We’re off, Biondello. But they may need you at home, so you go on back.

I’ll see them safely married first and then hurry back to my master’s.

I wonder why Cambio hasn’t shown up in all this time.

Here is the door, sir. This is Lucentio’s house. My father-in-law lives closer to the marketplace. That’s where I’m going now, so I’ll leave you here.

You must not go without having a drink first. I think I may presume to welcome you, and they’re probably preparing some kind of feast to welcome me.

They’re pretty busy in there. You’d better knock louder.

(as VINCENTIO) Who’s that breaking down the door?

Is Signior Lucentio at home, sir?

(as VINCENTIO) Yes, he’s at home, but he can’t be disturbed.

What if a fellow were bringing him a couple of hundred pounds to toss around?

(as VINCENTIO) Keep your hundreds. He won’t need them as long as I’m living.

(to VINCENTIO) I told you your son was popular in Padua. Hear that, sir? (to MERCHANT) Games aside, though, would you be good enough to tell Signior Lucentio that his father has arrived from Pisa and stands at the door waiting to speak with him?

(as VINCENTIO) You lie. His father is already in Padua. In fact, he’s standing right here looking out the window.

You’re his father?

(as VINCENTIO) Yes, sir—according to his mother, if I can believe her.

(to VINCENTIO) What? Why this is out and out robbery! To appropriate another man’s name.

(as VINCENTIO) Arrest the wretch. I think he means to bamboozle someone in this city while pretending to be me.

(to himself) Well, I’ve seen them married. Good luck to them! Uh-oh. What’s this? It’s my master’s father, Vincentio! Now we’re in trouble. Everything’s ruined.

(to BIONDELLO) Come here, you scoundrel.

I believe I have some choice in the matter, sir.

Come here, you wretch! What, have you forgotten me?

Forgotten you! No, sir. I could not forget you, since I never saw you before in my life.

Despicable brute! Never seen your master’s father, Vincentio?

My honorable, reverend master? Yes, of course. There he is at the window.

Is that so?

Help, help, help! This madman will murder me.

(as VINCENTIO) Help, son! Help, Signior Baptista!

What do you think, Kate, shall we hang back and see how this conflict finishes?

(as LUCENTIO) How dare you beat my servant, sir?

How dare I? How dare you, sir? Oh, cruel gods! Oh, clever villain! A silk doublet, velvet hose, a scarlet cloak, and a high-brimmed hat! Oh, I am destroyed, I am destroyed! While I sat counting my pennies at home, my son and my servant have squandered all my money at the university.

(as LUCENTIO) Heavens, what’s the matter?

What, is the man crazy?

(as LUCENTIO) Sir, you seem from your clothes to be a sober, respectable old gentleman, but your words show you to be a madman. What do you care if I wear pearls and gold? Thanks to my father, I can afford to.

Your father! Why, you scoundrel! Your father is a sailmaker in Bergamo.

You’re wrong, sir, very wrong. Why, what do you imagine his name to be?

His name! As if I wouldn’t know his name, I who brought him up ever since he was three years old. His name is Tranio.

(as VINCENTIO) Get rid of this mad fool! This is Lucentio, my only son and heir to all my lands.

Lucentio! Oh God, he’s murdered his master! Restrain him! I charge you in the Duke’s name. Oh, my son, my son! Tell me, you monster, where is my son Lucentio?

(as LUCENTIO) Call forth an officer.

Take this mad wretch to jail.—Father-in-law Baptista, will you see that he’s available to appear in court?

Take me off to jail?

Wait, officer. He mustn’t go to prison.

Be quiet, Signior Gremio. I say he shall go to prison.

Be careful, Signior Baptista, lest you be made the dupe in this business. I could swear this is the real Vincentio.