The Two Gentlemen of Verona

Sir, here is your glove.

That isn’t mine. I’m already wearing my gloves.

Well, then, this may be your glove, because it’s all by itself.

Ha! Let me see it. Yes, give it to me. It’s mine. Sweet accessory that Sylvia’s divine hand wears. Ah Sylvia, Sylvia!

(calling) Madame Sylvia! Madama Sylvia!

What are you doing, pal?

She’s too far away to hear me, sir.

But, sir, who asked you to call out for her?

You did, sir, or else I misunderstood you.

Well, you’re always too presumptuous.

Even though last time I was scolded for being too slow.

Enough, sir. Tell me, do you know Madame Sylvia?

The Madame Sylvia you love, your worship?

Why, how do you know that I am in love?

Because of all the right signs, of course: First, like Sir Proteus, you have started to fold your arms like you’re unhappy about something. You go around singing love songs like a redbreasted robin. You walk alone, like one who has the plague. You sigh like a schoolboy who has lost his textbook. You weep, like a young girl who has just buried her grandmother. You don’t eat, like one who’s on a diet. You can’t sleep, like one who fears being robbed. You whine, like a beggar on Hallowmas It used to be that when you laughed, you crowed like a rooster. When you walked, you walked like a lion. When you didn’t eat, it was because you’d just finished lunch. When you looked sad, it was because you were out of money. And now a mistress has changed you. When I look at you, I can hardly recognize you as my master.

Can you see all these things in me?

They are all outside of you, in your outward appearance.

Outside of me? They cannot be outside of me.

Outside of you? No, I’m sure, because if you weren’t so obvious no one would see them. But your appearance is so marked by these foolish traits that they must be inside you, and they shine through you as if you were water in a jar. Everyone that sees you is like a physician who knows why you’re sick.

But tell me, do you know my lady Sylvia?

The woman you stare at while she sits at the dinner table?

Have you noticed me doing that? Yes, that’s the woman I mean.

Well, sir, I don’t know her at all.

Do you know her only by my staring at her and not otherwise?

Isn’t she ugly, sir?

She’s not as beautiful, boy, as she is gracious.

Sir, I know that very well.

What do you know?

The she isn’t as pretty as she is looked on favorably by you.

I mean that her beauty is exquisite but her graciousness is infinite.

That’s because the first one is done with makeup and the other can’t be counted.

What do you mean, done with makeup? And why can’t you count the other?

I mean, sir, she’s so painted with makeup to look beautiful that no man values her beauty.

So what do you think of me, then? I think she’s very beautiful.

You haven’t seen her since she was deformed.

How long has she been deformed?

Ever since you fell in love with her.

I have loved her ever since I first saw her, and I still think she’s beautiful.

If you love her then you cannot see her.

Why not?

Because Love is blind. Oh, if you had my eyes, or if you could see as clearly as you did when you scolded Sir Proteus for not wearing a garter!

What would I see then?

Your own current foolishness and her enormous deformity. Proteus, because he was in love, forgot to put on a garter to keep his stockings up, and you, also being in love, can’t see well enough to even put on your stockings.

Then maybe, boy, you’re in love, because this morning you couldn’t see well enough to polish my shoes.

True, sir. I was in love with my bed. I thank you—you hit me because I was so in love, which has made me bold enough to scold you for your love.

In conclusion, I’m in love with her.

I wish you weren’t standing erect. Maybe then your love would go away.

Last night she asked me to write some lines of poetry to the one she loves.

And did you?

I did.

They’re badly written, aren’t they?

No, boy, I wrote them as well as I could. Be quiet now—here she comes.

(aside) Oh, what a puppet show! Such a wonderful puppet she makes. Now he’ll give his commentary on the show.

Madame and mistress, I wish you a thousand good mornings.

(aside) And God give you a good evening! What manners!

Sir Valentine and servant, to you I wish two thousand good mornings.

(aside) He should outdo her in compliments, but she outdoes him.

As you asked, I have written your letter to that secret, anonymous friend of yours. Though I didn’t want to do it, I wrote it out of duty to your ladyship.

I thank you, gentle servant. It’s very smartly written.

Now trust me, madame, it wasn’t easy to write this, because I had to be somewhat vague since I didn’t know to whom it would go.

Perhaps you think it was too much trouble?

No, madame. If it helps you, I will write a thousand times as many lines if you like. And yet . . .

A fine pause! I can guess what you’re going to say next. And yet I will not say it. And yet I don’t care. And yet you can take this back. And yet thanks anyway, meaning I won’t bother you again.

(aside) And yet you will, and yet say another “yet.”

What do you mean, your ladyship? Don’t you like it?

Yes, yes. The lines are very nicely written, but since you wrote them so unwillingly, take them back. No, take them.

Madame, they are for you.

Yes, yes. You wrote them, sir, at my request, but I don’t want them. They are for you. I wish they had been more movingly written.

If it pleases you, I’ll write another for your ladyship.

And when it’s written, read it over for my sake. And if it pleases you, fine. And if it doesn’t, well, that’s also fine.

If it pleases me, madame, what then?

Why, if it pleases you, then take it as payment for your hard work. And so good morning and goodbye to you, servant.

(aside) Oh, that joke is as hard to see as a nose on a man’s face or a weathercock on a steeple! My master pleads with her, and she has taught him, her student, to become her teacher. What an excellent trick! Has anyone ever heard anything better than my master, the scribe, writing the letter to himself?

What’s that, sir? What are you reasoning to yourself over there?

No, I was rhyming. It’s you who’s been doing the reasoning.

Reasoning what?

To be a spokesman for Madame Sylvia.

To whom?

To yourself. Why, she’s wooing you indirectly with this trick.

What trick?

By a letter, I should say.

But, she hasn’t written to me.

Why would she need to when she’s made you write to yourself? Why, don’t you get the joke?

No, believe me.

No believing you, indeed, sir. Did you think she was being serious?

She gave me nothing except an angry word.

Why, she’s given you a letter.

That’s the letter I wrote to her friend.

And she’s delivered that letter, and that’s the end of it.

I wish it were that good.

I promise you, it is that good. Because you’ve often written to her, and she, whether out of modesty or because she didn’t have the time, or out of fear that the messenger carrying the letter would discover her feelings, couldn’t reply. So she taught the man she loves to write to himself. I say all this very carefully, because I read it in her as if it were printed on a page. Why do you look so pensive, sir? It’s lunchtime.

I’ve already eaten.

Yes, but listen, sir: even though the chameleon Love can feed off the air, I need real food for nourishment, and I’m eager to have meat. Oh, don’t be like your mistress—have a heart!