The Two Gentlemen of Verona

When a man’s pet behaves like a stupid mongrel, mind you, it’s hard to take—a dog that I brought up from a puppy, one that I saved from drowning when three or four of his newborn brothers and sisters were drowned. I have trained him quite literally “as I would teach a dog,” as the saying goes. I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Sylvia from my master, but no sooner had I stepped into the dining room than he ran ahead of me to the plate and stole her drumstick. Oh, it is a foul thing when a mongrel can’t behave himself in front of company! It seems I have a dog that tries to be a dog indeed—dog-gone good at all things, as one would say. If I hadn’t had the brains to take the blame for what he’d done, I honestly think he would have been hanged for it. As sure as I’m alive he would have been punished for it. You be the judge. He thrusts himself under the duke’s table and into the company of three or four fancier dogs. He hadn’t been there a second or two before everyone in the whole room could smell his piss—pardon my French! “Out with the dog!” says one person; “What mangy mutt is that?” asks another. “Whip him,” says a third. “Hang him!” says the duke. I, having smelled that smell before, knew it was Crab, so I went to the fellow whose job it is to whip the dogs. “Friend,” I said, “are you going to whip the dog?” “Yes, in fact, I am,” he replied. “Then you’re doing him a great injustice,” I answered back, “because it was I who peed all over the place.” He didn’t say anything else but just whipped me out of the room. How many masters would do this for their pets? No, I swear I’ve sat in the stocks for meat pies he has stolen—otherwise he would have been executed. I have stood on the pillory for geese he has killed—otherwise he would have suffered the consequences. You don’t remember any of this now, do you, Crab? No, I remember the trick you pulled on me when I said goodbye to Madame Sylvia. Didn’t I tell you that you should still obey me and do as I do? When did you ever see me lift up my leg and urinate on a noble woman’s undergarments? Did you ever see me do such a thing?

(to Julia) Your name is Sebastian, right? I like you, and I’d like to hire you for a job I need done.

Name it. I’ll do what I can.

I hope you will.

How’s it going, you poor son of a bitch? Where have you been hanging around these past two days?

Well, sir, I brought the dog to Mistress Sylvia, as you instructed.

What did she say about my little jewel of a gift?

Actually, she said your dog was a mongrel and said that a shabby thanks is good enough for such a present.

But she accepted my dog?

No, indeed, she didn’t. Here, I’ve brought him back again.

What, did you offer her this mutt from me?

Yes, sir. The other runt was stolen from me by a gang of boys in the marketplace. So, I offered her my own, which is a bigger dog than ten of your little dogs, and so a better gift.

Go on and get out of here, and find my dog again, or never let me see you again. Away, I say! Are you staying here to make me angry?

What a scoundrel, who never fails to disgrace me! Sebastian, I’ve hired you partly because I have need of a young man who can take care of some business for me quietly, and there’s no trusting that foolish lout Lance. But I’ve chiefly hired you for the way you look and act, which if my intuition doesn’t deceive me mean you are honest, lucky, and have been brought up well. Know that this is why I hired you. Now go, and take this ring with you.

The woman who gave it to me loved me very much. Deliver it to Madame Sylvia.

It seems you didn’t love her if you’re giving away her gift. Is she dead?

No. I think she’s alive.

Oh no!

Why do you cry “Oh no!”?

I can’t help but feel sorry for her.

Why would you feel sorry for her?

Because I suspect she loved you as much as you love your lady Sylvia. She dreams of that man who has forgotten her love. You dote on a woman who doesn’t care for your love. It’s a pity love is so difficult, and thinking about it makes me cry “Oh no!”

Well, give her that ring and with it this letter. (giving a letter) That’s her room. Tell her I want the heavenly picture she promised me. When you’ve finished delivering the message, return home to my room, where you’ll find me sad and alone.

How many women would deliver such a message? Too bad, poor Proteus! You’ve hired a fox to be the shepherd of your lambs. Why, poor fool that I am, do I pity the man who despises me? He despises me because he loves her, and I feel sorry for him because I love him. This is the ring I gave him when he left, and it was to remind him always of my feelings. And now I’m an unhappy messenger who is supposed to ask for the picture I don’t want him to have, to deliver the ring I want Sylvia to refuse, and to praise his loyalty, which I want to disparage. I am my master’s true love, but I can’t be a loyal servant to my master without being a traitor to myself. Still I’ll woo Sylvia for him, but heaven knows I’ll do it coldly, because I don’t want him to win her.

Gentlewoman, good day! Would you please take me to Madame Sylvia so that I may speak with her?

What do you want with her, assuming I am she?

If you are she, I ask your patience to hear me deliver the message I’ve been instructed to bring you.

From whom?

From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.

Oh, did he send you for a picture of me?

Yes, madame.

Ursula, bring my picture there.

Go, give your master this. Tell him from me that a woman named Julia, whom his fickle heart has forgotten, would be more appropriate for his bedroom than this image of me.

Madame, please read this letter.

Pardon me, madame—I accidentally gave you a paper I shouldn’t have.

This is the letter for your ladyship.

Please, let me look at that other letter again.

I can’t do that. Forgive me, good madam.

Wait, stop! I will not look at your master’s letter. I know it is filled with vows and full of newly made oaths, which he will break as easily as I tear up his letter.

(offering the ring) Madame, he sends your ladyship this ring.

He should be even more ashamed for sending it to me, since I have heard him say a thousand times that his love Julia gave it to him when he departed. Even though his deceitful finger has sullied the ring, my finger will not mistreat Julia so much.

She thanks you.

What did you say?

I thank you, madam, that you consider her feelings. Poor gentlewoman! My master mistreats her very much.

Do you know her?

Almost as well as I know myself. I swear I’ve wept several hundred times thinking about her sorrows.

She probably thinks that Proteus has rejected her.

I think she does, and that’s the cause of her sorrow.

Isn’t she very beautiful?

She has been more beautiful, madam, than she is now. When she thought my master loved her deeply, she was as beautiful as you, in my opinion. But since she no longer takes care of her appearance and has thrown her sunblocking mask away, the air has taken the rosiness from her cheeks and stolen the whiteness from her face, so that now she is as ugly as I am.

How tall was she?

About my height. When we put on a pageant at Pentecost, the young men got me to play the part of a woman, and I was dressed in Madam Julia’s gown, which everyone said fit me very well, as if the garment had been made for me. Therefore, I know she is about my height. And at the time I made her cry a lot, because I played a really sad part—I was Ariadne, Madame, suffering from Theseus’ lies and unfair departure. I acted the part so convincingly with my tears that poor Julia, moved with the performance, wept bitterly. I would wish I were dead if I didn’t feel her very sorrow!

She is indebted to you, young man. Such a shame—the poor lady, desolate and abandoned! I weep myself just hearing your story. Here, young man, there is my purse.

I give this to you for your sweet mistresses’ sake, because you love her. Farewell.

And she will thank you for it, if you ever meet her. A virtuous gentlewoman, kind and beautiful! I hope my master’s endeavors to win her love will fail since she respects the love I feel for him so much. It’s too bad how love can fool itself! Here is her picture.

Let me see, I think if I had a similar headdress my face would be as lovely as hers. And yet the painter made her prettier than she is, unless I flatter myself too much in thinking I’m as pretty. Her hair is auburn, while mine is perfect yellow. If that’s the only thing he likes better about her, then I’ll get myself a blond wig. Her eyes are as gray as glass, and so are mine. Yes, but her forehead’s low, and mine is as high as hers is low. If Love is really blind, what does he value in her that I can’t make him value in myself? Let’s go, Sebastian. Let’s go and get rid of this picture, since it’s your rival.

Oh you unfeeling image, you’ll be worshipped, kissed, loved, and adored! Were there any sense in his worship, it would be the real me he worships instead. I’ll treat this picture kindly for the sake of its mistress, who treated me so well. Otherwise, by Jove, I would have scratched out your unseeing eyes to make my master fall out of love with you!