The Taming of the Shrew

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.