Chapter V: Part 5

“Ay, now I am in Arden,” grumbled Touchstone. “The more fool I! When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.”

“Ay, be so, good Touchstone,” counselled Rosalind. “Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk.”

The newcomers were two shepherds called Corin and Silvius. The young man, Silvius, soon went away, and then Rosalind appealed to the old shepherd, asking if he could direct them to any place where they could rest themselves and get something to eat.

Corin replied that he would gladly have helped them if he could, but his fortune was very humble; he was only shepherd to another man, and did not own the flocks he looked after. His master was very churlish and inhospitable, and, besides, at this moment his cottage and flocks were on sale, so there was no food at home that he could offer them. However, if they liked to come and rest in the cottage, they were heartily welcome.

Rosalind asked who was going to buy the flock and pasture. Corin replied that it was the young swain who had just left him, and who cared nothing at all about the matter.

“I pray you, if you can do so honestly, buy the cottage, pasture, and flock,” said Rosalind, “and we will give you the money to pay for them.”

“And we will increase your wages,” added Celia. “I like this place, and would willingly spend some time here.”

So Celia and Rosalind, still attended by Touchstone, took up their abode in the shepherd’s cottage; and that was how the cynical lord Jaques happened to meet the fool in the forest.

The Shepherd Youth

Orlando, in his new life, did not forget the lady whom he had seen at the wrestling match, and who had so quickly won his heart. As he had no chance of speaking to Rosalind, the only way in which he could show his love was to carve her name on all the trees, and perpetually to write verses in her praise, which he hung all over the forest.

“Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love,” he would say. “O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books, and I will trace my thoughts in their bark, so that every eye which looks in this forest shall see your praise everywhere.”

Rosalind came across some of these papers, and wondered greatly who the person could be who thus carved and hung her name on all the trees; but Celia, who had also found some of the verses, was able to enlighten her, for she had happened to see the writer. On hearing that it was really Orlando, Rosalind became quite excited, and Celia had no time to answer half the eager questions showered on her before Orlando himself came that way.

Rosalind now for the first time rather regretted her boy’s dress, for, of course, Orlando did not recognise the cousins in their present attire. But, at any rate, in the guise of a saucy youth she determined to have a little fun, and presently a whimsical idea occurred to her nimble brain. Seeing how disconsolate Orlando was, she suggested to him that she should _pretend_ to be really his Rosalind, and that he should address all his affectionate speeches and verses to her exactly in the same way as he would have done to the real person. If he did this, she said, she would soon cure him of his love.

Orlando replied that he did not want to be cured, but, all the same, he was perfectly willing to go every day to the shepherd’s cottage, and talk to this youth as if he were really Rosalind. The plan succeeded admirably. Since he could not have Rosalind herself, it pleased Orlando to be always talking about her, and he did not notice how much in earnest this half-jesting companionship gradually became.

As time went on, the exiles from Duke Frederick’s court made other acquaintances in the forest. Touchstone had found an object of interest, which served as an excellent butt for displaying his satire. This was a rustic goatherd, called Audrey, a simple, not bad-natured girl, but one of the very stupidest and most ignorant specimens of humanity possible to imagine. Touchstone seemed to be quite fascinated by her extreme silliness, and out of sheer perversity declared he meant to marry her. As for Audrey, she was perfectly unconscious of any ridicule he chose to lavish on her, and followed Touchstone about like a willing little slave.

Rosalind and Celia, also, had come across Jaques, and the latter would willingly have become closer friends with the shepherd youth, but Rosalind’s sunny nature had nothing in sympathy with this cynic.

“They say you are a melancholy fellow,” she said one day, in answer to a suggestion from Jaques that they should become better acquainted.

“I am so; I love it better than laughing,” he replied. “It is good to be sad and say nothing.”

“Why, then, it’s good to be a post,” remarked Rosalind.

There were many different kinds of melancholy, Jaques explained, such as the scholar’s, the musician’s, the courtier’s, the soldier’s, etc.; his, however, was a melancholy of his own, compounded of many different ingredients, but especially due to reflections over his travels.

“Yes, I have gained my experience,” he ended, with mournful satisfaction.

“And your experience makes you sad?” quoth Rosalind. “I would rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad. And to travel for it too!”

* * * * *

But the joyous, free life of the forest was drawing to a close, though much happiness was still in store for those who had wandered there. A day came when Orlando for once failed to keep his tryst. He had left Rosalind, promising to return within an hour, but in his stead there came to the two cousins a stranger bearing a handkerchief stained with blood. Briefly he told his tale. Orlando had been walking through the forest, when he saw a wretched man, ragged and unkempt, sleeping under a tree. Round his neck a green and gilded snake had twined itself, and its head was just poised to strike, when, seeing Orlando, it glided away under a bush. But the peril was not yet over, for under that very bush couched a famished lioness, watching like a cat, to pounce on the sleeping man the moment he should stir. And having seen this, Orlando approached, and found it was his brother--his eldest brother.

Remembering the cruel way in which Oliver had always treated him, his first impulse was to leave him to his fate, but his better nature conquered. Orlando did battle with the lioness, who quickly fell before him.

“And in the noise of the struggle I awakened from my miserable slumber,” said the stranger.

“Are you his brother? Was it you who so often plotted to kill him?” asked Celia.

“It _was_ I, but it is I no longer,” said Oliver.

Orlando’s noble behaviour had completely overcome his malicious nature; all evil thoughts against Orlando were banished, and for the future the two brothers were the best of friends.

Oliver was made welcome by the Duke, and was afterwards talking to Orlando in his own cave, when his brother, calling on the name of Rosalind, suddenly fainted. His arm had been badly torn by the lioness, and had been bleeding all this time. Oliver revived him, bound up the wound, and after a little, Orlando, being brave of heart, begged his brother, stranger as he was, to find his friends at the shepherd’s cottage, and explain to them why he had been unable to keep his promise. He sent the handkerchief dyed in his blood to the shepherd youth whom he had called in sport his Rosalind.

On hearing of the peril through which Orlando had passed, Rosalind was so moved that she almost betrayed herself by fainting. Oliver was somewhat astonished at such weakness on the part of a youth, but Rosalind tried to pretend it was only a counterfeit. Her pale looks, however, showed too plainly that the swoon was no counterfeit, though she persisted in declaring it was, and bade Oliver carry back word to Orlando how well she had pretended to faint.

* * * * *

The sweetness and grace of Celia made so strong an impression on Oliver that he soon fell deeply in love with her, and as she was equally attracted by him, and as he was now quite converted from his former evil nature, it was agreed they should be married without delay. Orlando did all he could to help forward the wedding, though the sight of his brother’s good fortune made him realise only more clearly his own unavailing love for Rosalind.

“They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial,” he said. “But, oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!”

“Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?” asked the real Rosalind.

“I can live no longer by thinking,” said Orlando.

“I will weary you, then, no more with idle talking,” said Rosalind. “Know now that I speak to some purpose. Believe, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three years old, conversed with a magician, deeply skilled in his art. If you love Rosalind as heartily as you appear to do, then, when your brother marries Aliena, you shall marry Rosalind. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven, and it is not impossible to me, if it does not seem inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger.”

“Do you speak in sober earnest?” demanded Orlando, scarcely able to credit what he heard.

“I do, on my life--which I value tenderly, though I _am_ a magician. Therefore put on your best array, invite your friends: for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind if you will.”

The promise, which appeared so amazing to Orlando, was, of course, easily kept, and the following day, when the Duke and all the wedding guests assembled to witness Oliver’s wedding, Rosalind and Celia appeared without their disguise, and in their real attire. The banished Duke found a daughter, and Orlando found his Rosalind.

In the midst of the wedding festivities arrived the second son of Sir Rowland de Boys, bearing the tidings that Duke Frederick had been converted by a religious man, and meant to leave the world and all its pomp. He bequeathed his crown to his banished brother, and restored all their lands to the lords who had been exiled with him.

In the general chorus of pleasure there was only one discordant note. Jaques the cynic--“melancholy Jaques”--refused to join in the harmless mirth. He announced his intention of following Duke Frederick into retirement. He bade the others all follow their different forms of enjoyment,--as for himself, “I am for other than for dancing measures,” he declared.

“Stay, Jaques--stay,” begged the Duke.

“Not to see any pastime,” was the grim response. “If you want anything, I will stay to hear it at your abandoned cave.”

Like King Solomon of old, Jaques had tasted all the pleasures of life, and had delighted in studying his fellow-mortals; but his stores of wit and wisdom brought him no real satisfaction. “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” was all that his worldly philosophy had taught him, and his sharp-eyed cynicism saw only the base and ludicrous side of human nature. So he went his way, rejecting the kindly fellowship that was offered him, and taking a half-exultant pride in his own loneliness and melancholy.

But the Duke ordered the rejoicings to proceed, and the green glades of the Forest of Arden rang with the sound of song and laughter.

The Taming of the Shrew

A Rough Courtship

“Katherine the curst!” That is not a pretty title for a maiden, but that was the nickname given to one, renowned all through Padua for her scolding tongue.

Baptista Minola had two daughters, both young and beautiful, but very different in disposition, for while Bianca, the younger, was so sweet and gentle that she was beloved by all, the elder sister Katharine had such a violent and ungovernable temper that everyone feared and disliked her.

Bianca had several suitors, but Baptista, her father, was firmly resolved not to allow his youngest daughter to marry until he had secured a husband for the elder. In the meantime he declared Bianca should stay quietly at home; but as he loved his daughter, and did not want the time to pass heavily with her, he promised to provide schoolmasters, to instruct her in the studies in which she took most delight--music and poetry.

Bianca meekly submitted to this somewhat hard decree, but two of her suitors--Gremio and Hortensio--were very indignant that she should be kept secluded in this fashion. They were rivals in their courtship, but this hindrance to them both made them friends. They agreed to do their best to find a husband for Katharine, and thus, when the younger sister was free again, to set to work afresh to see which could win her.

On the very day when Baptista announced his resolve, there arrived in Padua a great friend of Hortensio’s, whose name was Petruchio, and who lived in Verona. Petruchio told Hortensio that his father was dead, and that he had now come abroad to see the world. He had money in his pockets, possessions at home, and possibly he would marry if he could find a wife.

Hortensio’s thoughts, of course, at once flew to Katharine, and half in jest he offered to supply Petruchio with a wife, shrewish and ill-favoured, he said, but rich--very rich.

“But you are too much my friend,” he concluded; “I could not wish you to marry her.”

Petruchio, in his own way, was as perverse and self-willed as Katharine, and he immediately replied that the lady might be old, ugly, and as great a shrew as Xantippe, wife of Socrates, but so long as she was wealthy he was quite ready to marry her.

Seeing his friend in this mood, Hortensio continued in earnest what he had begun in jest.

“Petruchio,” he said, “I can help you to a wife, with wealth enough, and who is young and beautiful, and brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman; her only fault, and that is fault enough, is that she has an intolerable temper, and is so violent and wayward, beyond all measure, that if I were far poorer than I am I would not wed her for a mine of gold.”

Petruchio, however, was a gentleman of valiant disposition and most determined will, and he was not in the least daunted by all the reports he heard of Katharine’s terrible temper.

“Do you think a little noise can frighten me?” he said. “Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the seas puffed up with wind, rage like an angry boar? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, and heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard loud alarums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang, and do you tell me of a woman’s tongue? Tush, tush! Frighten boys with bogies!”

Bianca’s suitors were delighted to have found such a match for Katharine, and the lady’s father was equally pleased, and promised a handsome dowry, though he was rather doubtful of Petruchio’s success in winning his daughter. But it soon turned out Petruchio had not in the least over-rated his powers.

He knew that kindness and soft words would be thrown away in dealing with such a nature as Katharine’s; she was accustomed to everyone’s giving in to her, and the very gentleness and submission of Bianca had only the effect of irritating her more. Petruchio determined to adopt an entirely different plan, and to fight Katharine, as it were, with her own weapons. Instead of meekly yielding to all her whims and tantrums, he intended to thwart her on every possible occasion; if she railed at him, then he would tell her plainly that she sang as sweetly as a nightingale; if she frowned, he would say she looked as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew; if she were mute and would not speak a word, then he would praise her volubility, and say she spoke with piercing eloquence; if she bade him depart, he would thank her as though she bade him remain for a week; if she refused to wed him, he would ask what day he should have the banns called, and when be married.

The plan that Petruchio had had the shrewdness to invent he had strength of will to carry out. It was absolutely useless for the fiery lady to try to overawe him by anger, scorn, ridicule, or insolence. Petruchio ignored all her insulting speeches with the most perfect good-humour, and his own self-possession and satirical remarks reduced her to a state of hopeless fury. The moment she appeared he started by contradicting her, insisted that she was called “Kate,” although she said she was called “Katharine,” and declared that, having heard her mildness praised in every town, her virtues spoken of, and her beauty extolled, he had come to woo her for his wife. It was useless for Katharine to get into a passion and shower abuse on him. The ruder she became, the more charming he pretended to think her.

“I find you extremely gentle,” he said. “It was told me you were rough and coy and sullen, but now I find report is a liar; for you are pleasant, playful, extremely courteous; a little slow in speech, but sweet as spring flowers; you cannot frown, you cannot look askance, not bite your lip as angry wenches will; nor does it please you to be cross in talk, but you entertain your suitors with gentle conversation, soft and affable.”

This method of treatment was entirely novel to Katharine, and she scarcely knew how to contain herself at such audacity; but the torrent of angry words she poured out had no effect whatever on this determined suitor. He treated her furious speeches as idle chat, and told her calmly that her father had given his consent, the dowry was agreed on, and that, willing or unwilling, he intended to marry her. The beauty of this fiery maiden took his fancy, and the thought of taming her wild nature to his own will filled him with more pleasure than he would have felt at winning a gentle and submissive creature for his wife. When Baptista a few minutes later entered to ask how the courtship was speeding, Petruchio announced that he and Katharine were so well agreed that they were going to be married on the following Sunday.

“I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first,” was Katharine’s wrathful rejoinder; but, all the same, when Sunday arrived the bride was ready, dressed, and waiting for her eccentric bridegroom.

The Marriage, and After

The bride was ready, the guests were assembled, but the bridegroom still tarried. Petruchio intended to teach Katharine a severe lesson. She had never shown the slightest consideration for anyone else; her proud, overbearing nature had always carried everything before it, and her violent temper had quelled any attempt at argument. But in Petruchio she had met her match. It was his aim to humble her pride thoroughly, and to show her how unpleasant it is for others to have to live with a person who is perpetually flying into a passion.

The first humiliation to Katharine was the lateness of the bridegroom’s arrival, but still more mortifying to her pride, when he did at last appear, was the extraordinary array in which he had chosen to attire himself. His hat was new, but his jerkin was old, and his breeches had been turned three times; his boots were not a pair, one was buckled, the other laced; and he had taken out of the town armoury a rusty old sword with a broken hilt. His horse was a poor wretched creature, scarcely able to hobble, and the rotten harness was pieced together with pack-thread. His servant, Grumio, was equipped in the same fashion, all odds and ends, a linen stocking on one leg and a woollen one on the other, gartered with red and blue list; an old hat with a tattered rag of a feather--in fact, he was a perfect guy in dress, not like a Christian foot-boy or a gentleman’s lackey.

Katharine had already started for the church, when Petruchio came rushing in, demanding his bride. He declined to give any explanation of his delay, and when Baptista and the other gentlemen begged him to put on more becoming wedding garments, he flatly refused. Kate was to be married to him, and not to his clothes, he declared, and off he hurried to the church.

There he behaved in such a strange, mad fashion that the guests were scandalised, and the bride was perfectly terrified. He cuffed the clergyman who was marrying them, called for a glass of wine, drank it noisily, and then threw the dregs in the old sexton’s face, giving as his only reason that his beard seemed to him thin and hungry. When they got back to the house after the wedding, things went no better. Baptista had prepared a great feast in honour of the occasion, but Petruchio refused to stay and share it, and announced that he must depart at once. Entreaties were of no avail, and even Katharine was refused when she joined her voice to the others.

“Nay, then, do what you like,” she cried indignantly; “_I_ will not go to-day--no, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; you had better be moving before your boots grow old. As for me, I shall not go till I please myself. A nice surly husband you are likely to prove, if this is the way you begin.”

“O Kate, content thee; prithee, do not be angry.”

“I _will_ be angry. Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner. I see a woman may be made a fool if she has not spirit to resist.”

“They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command,” said Petruchio. “Obey the bride, you that attend on her; go to the feast, revel, be mad and merry--or go hang yourselves! But as for my bonny Kate, she must go with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels, my everything; and here she stands, touch her whoever dare! Fear not, sweet wife, they shall not touch thee, Kate!” And, making belief that they were beset with thieves, Petruchio shouted to his man-servant Grumio to come and help rescue his mistress, and so dragged Katharine reluctantly away.

The wedding journey was unpleasant. Katharine’s horse fell with her in one of the muddiest places, and Petruchio left her to struggle free by herself, while he belaboured Grumio heartily because her horse had stumbled. Katharine had to wade through the mire to pray for mercy for the man before her husband would leave off beating him. Arrived at his country house, Petruchio had all the other servants assembled, and then stormed at them roundly because nothing was right. Katharine had again to intercede, and she tried to point out they were not to blame; but the angry master would listen to no excuses. Supper was brought, but Petruchio pretended it was badly cooked, and threw the meat about all over the place, refusing to let his wife taste a morsel. She was now really hungry, and would gladly have eaten the food he threw away; but Petruchio intended that she should be much more hungry and submissive before he allowed her anything to eat. She was also very tired, but he took care she should get no sleep that night; he tossed about the furniture in the room, finding fault with everything; and all this was done with the pretence that it was out of loving care for her own comfort.

By the following day Katharine felt almost famished. She implored Grumio to go and fetch her something to eat; she did not mind what it was so long as it was wholesome food. The man tantalized her for some time by suggesting one dish after another, any one of which she would gladly have accepted, and finally ended by saying impertinently he could fetch her some mustard without any beef.

At that moment Petruchio entered, bringing some meat which he said he had himself prepared for her.

“I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then, you do not like it, and all my pains are of no use. Here, take away this dish.”

“I pray you let it stand,” said Katharine.

“The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine be before you touch the meat,” said Petruchio.

“I thank you, sir,” Katharine compelled her proud lips to murmur, for, indeed, she was nearly starving, and could not endure to see the food carried away untouched.

“Now, my honey love,” continued Petruchio, who was always most affectionate in his speech, and pretended that everything he did was out of devotion to his wife, “we will return to your father’s house, decked out as bravely as the best, in gay apparel;” and, scarcely allowing her a moment in which to snatch a morsel of food, he ordered in the tailor and haberdasher, who had been preparing some fine new clothes.

But, as usual, nothing pleased him.

“Here is the cap your worship bespoke,” said the haberdasher.

“Why, this was moulded on a porringer, a velvet dish!” exclaimed Petruchio, with an air of disgust. “It’s a cockle or a walnut-shell--a toy, a baby’s cap! Away with it! Come, let me have a bigger.”

“I’ll have no bigger,” declared Katharine. “This suits the present style, and gentlewomen wear such caps as these.”

“When you are gentle, you shall have one too, and not till then,” said Petruchio, in rather a meaning voice.

Katharine’s old spirit blazed up again at this rebuke, but the only notice Petruchio took of her angry words was to pretend to think she was agreeing with him in his abuse of the cap. Then he ordered the tailor to produce the gown.

“O heavens! what silly style of stuff is here?” he cried in horror. “What’s this? A sleeve? It’s like a demi-cannon! What, up and down, carved like an apple-tart? Here’s snip and nip, and cut, and slish and slash, like a censer in a barber’s shop. Why, what in the name of evil, tailor, do you call this?”

“You bade me make it well and properly, according to the fashion and the time,” said the tailor.

“Marry, so I did, but, if you remember, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Come, be off; I’ll none of it. Hence, make the best of it you can.”

“I never saw a better-fashioned gown,” said Katharine, “more quaint, more pleasing, nor more praiseworthy. I suppose you mean to make a puppet of me.”

“Why, true, he means to make a puppet of you,” said Petruchio, wilfully mistaking to whom she spoke.

“She says your worship means to make a puppet of her,” explained the tailor.

But Petruchio would listen to no reason or argument, and sent the tailor away in the most peremptory manner, though privately the man was told he would be paid for the gown, and that he was not to be offended at Petruchio’s hasty words.

“Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s house even in this honest, mean raiment,” said Petruchio. “After all, fine clothes are of no importance. Is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful? Oh no, good Kate; neither are you any the worse for this mean array. If you feel ashamed about it, lay the blame on me; and so, be cheerful. Come, we will go at once to feast and amuse ourselves at your father’s house. Let me see: I think it is now about seven o’clock; we shall easily get there by dinner-time.”

Katharine looked at her husband in astonishment; and well she might, for it was already the middle of the day.

“I assure you, sir, it is almost two o’clock; it will be supper-time before we get there.”

“It shall be seven o’clock before I get to horse,” declared Petruchio. “Look, whatever I speak or do, or think to do, you are always crossing me! I will not go to-day, and before I do, it shall be whatever time I say it is.”

* * * * *

Petruchio’s determined will at last gained the day, and Katharine learned that it was useless to attempt to battle with him. When in their journey to her father’s house he chose to say it was the moon shining in the sky, she had to agree that it was the moon, although everyone could see it was the sun; and then, when he declared immediately that it was the blessed sun, she had also to change her statement and say it was the sun.

“What you will have it named, even that it is,” she said, quite tired out by his strange freaks, “and so it shall be so for Katharine.”

“Petruchio, go your way, the field is won,” said his friend Hortensio, who was with them.

When matters had come to this point with the haughty Katharine, there was not much fear that she would resume her old imperious ways.

* * * * *

It may be remembered that, when Katharine’s father ordered his younger daughter Bianca to keep in seclusion till a husband had been found for Katharine, he had provided schoolmasters to divert her tedious hours. Two of her suitors had contrived to get into the house under the guise of masters of music and poetry, and one of them--Lucentio--she presently married, while the other--Hortensio--found consolation in a wealthy widow. To the wedding feast came Petruchio and Katharine, Hortensio and his wife, with many other guests, and during the meal a rather hot discussion sprang up as to the amiability of some of the ladies present. Petruchio remarked that his friend Hortensio was afraid of his wife, whereupon that lady retorted that he who is giddy thinks the world goes round, meaning by this that Petruchio was afraid of his own wife. Katharine was indignant at this, and even the gentle Bianca plunged rather sharply into the argument. After the ladies had retired from table the gentlemen still continued the discussion. Petruchio said the jest had glanced away from him, and had probably hurt Lucentio and Hortensio worse.

“Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,” said Baptista, “I think you have the veriest shrew of all.”

“Well, I say no,” said Petruchio. “So to make sure, let each one of us send to his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at once when he sends for her, shall win the wager which we will propose.”

“Content,” said Hortensio. “What is the wager?”

“Twenty crowns,” suggested Lucentio.

“Twenty crowns!” cried Petruchio. “I’d venture as much on my hawk or my hound, but twenty times as much on my wife.”

“A hundred, then,” said Lucentio.

“A match! It’s done,” said Petruchio.

“Who shall begin?” asked Hortensio.

“I will,” said Lucentio.

So a message was first sent to Bianca. But she sent back word that she was busy and could not come.

“How? She is busy and she cannot come! Is that an answer?” said Petruchio mockingly.

“Ay, and a kind one too,” said one of the guests. “Pray heaven, sir, your wife do not send you a worse.”

“I hope, better,” replied Petruchio.

“Signor Biondello, go and entreat my wife to come to me forthwith,” said Hortensio.

“O, ho! _entreat_ her!” laughed Petruchio. “Nay, then, she must needs come.”

“I am afraid, sir, do what you can, yours will not be entreated,” retorted Hortensio. Then, as the messenger returned, “Now, where’s my wife?”

“She says you have some goodly jest in hand; she will not come. She bids you go to her.”

“Worse and worse, ‘she will not come!’” said Petruchio. “Intolerable, not to be endured! Grumio, go to your mistress: say I command her to come to me.”

“I know her answer,” said Hortensio.

“What?”

“She will not come.”

But the next moment in walked Katharine.

“What is your will, sir, that you send for me?”

“Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?” asked Petruchio.

“They are sitting talking by the parlour fire.”

“Go, fetch them hither; if they refuse to come, beat them forth to their husbands. Away, I say, and bring them straight here.”

“Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder,” said Lucentio, as Katharine obediently departed.

“And so it is. I wonder what it bodes,” said Hortensio.

“Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life--in short, everything that is sweet and happy,” said Petruchio.

“Now, fair befall you, good Petruchio!” said Baptista. “You have won the wager, and I will add to it twenty thousand crowns--another dowry to another daughter, for Katharine is changed as if she had never been.”

“Nay,” said Petruchio, “I will win my wager better yet, and show more signs of her obedience. See where she comes and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion.” Then, as Katharine entered with Bianca and Hortensio’s wife, he continued: “Katharine, that cap of yours does not become you; off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.”

Greatly to the disgust of the other two wives, Katharine instantly obeyed.

“Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh till I be brought to such a silly pass,” said Hortensio’s wife, and even the gentle Bianca exclaimed with equal disdain:

“Fie! what sort of foolish duty do you call this?”

“I wish your duty were as foolish, too,” said her husband. “The _wisdom_ of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time.”

“The more fool you, for wagering on my duty!” was Bianca’s unkind reply.

Then Petruchio bade Katharine tell the other headstrong women what duty they owed their husbands. And this she straightway did, in a speech of such wonderful grace and submission that all her hearers were amazed. As for her husband, he was delighted with the result of his somewhat rough schooling. “Come, Kate!” he said. “Good-night!” And he retired triumphantly with his now loving and devoted wife.

Twelfth Night

Orsino’s Envoy

Sebastian and Viola were brother and sister, twins, and they resembled each other so closely that it would have been impossible to know them apart if it had not been for the difference in dress.

Travelling by sea on one occasion, they met with a dangerous adventure, for near the coast of Illyria their ship was wrecked, and though both managed to get safely to land, each feared the other had perished. The captain of the ship, who was saved in the same boat with Viola, kindly befriended her. It happened he knew that country well, for he was born and bred there, and had only left it a month before. He told Viola that it was governed by a Duke, noble in nature as in name, and that this Duke was in love with a fair lady called Olivia. The father and brother of the lady, however, had both died within the last year, and the Countess Olivia out of love for them and grief for their loss had shut herself up in seclusion ever since, and refused to see anyone.

Viola, who had been cast quite destitute on shore, would gladly have served this lady for awhile till the opportunity came to show what was her real estate in life; but the captain said that would be difficult to manage, for the Countess would listen to no kind of suit, not even the Duke Orsino’s. Then the idea came to Viola to disguise herself as a page, and to seek service with the Duke, of whom she had heard her own father speak. She could sing and play to him in many sorts of music, which would make her well worth his service, for the Duke was especially fond of music. The captain promised to keep concealed who she really was, aid her in getting a disguise, and present her to the Duke.

All went well. Viola, with her grace, beauty, and noble bearing, made such a gallant young page that she was received into instant favour, and before three days were over, the Duke, won by some irresistible charm, had confided to “Cesario” (as he called her) all the secret of his unhappy love for the lady Olivia. His suit so far had been rejected, even his messengers were denied admittance; but it occurred to Orsino that if he sent this pretty lad to the Countess perhaps he might be more successful in pleading his cause than some older envoy of graver aspect. He bade Cesario insist on admittance, and refuse to be sent away without seeing Olivia. When he gained speech with the Countess, he was to tell her of Orsino’s devotion, and relate his woes.

“Prosper well in this,” he ended, “and you shall live as freely as your lord, and call his fortunes yours.”

Alas, poor Viola! The Duke little thought what a task he was setting his young page. The sweetness and charm of his own nature had already won Viola’s heart, and how gladly she would have accepted the love which Olivia rejected!

But she must be faithful to her trust.

“I’ll do my best to woo your lady,” she said, and so departed on her mission.

While the lady Olivia lived in grief and retirement, there were others of her household very far from sharing in her desire for quiet and gravity. Her steward, Malvolio, was indeed a staid and respectable personage, stiff in bearing, hating all forms of wit and levity, very fault-finding with others, and extremely well satisfied with himself. Olivia had a real esteem for Malvolio, for she knew him to be worthy and conscientious, although, as she told him, he was “sick of self-love.” But there were others who conducted themselves very differently from Malvolio, and between these noisy dependents and the austere steward there was a constant smouldering resentment, always ready to break into open warfare.

The chief source of unruliness was a certain riotous knight, called Sir Toby Belch, an uncle of Olivia’s, who since her brother’s death had taken up his abode in the house. He loved feasting and revelry, and his wild behaviour was likely soon to bring discredit on the household if some check were not put to it. His boon companion was an idle knight, called Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who under a smattering of foreign languages concealed an unlimited fund of native stupidity. Sir Toby was quite aware of Sir Andrew’s silliness, and loved to laugh at him and parade his folly; but none the less he thought this foolish gentleman would do very well as a husband for Olivia, and he encouraged him to come to the house on every occasion. A third member of the band was Feste, the clown, or jester. Feste was a privileged person, and, like all fools or Court jesters in those days, was allowed to speak his mind much more freely than ordinary mortals; even the stately Countess herself did not escape his sharp speeches. In days gone by, Olivia’s father had taken much delight in him, and now Olivia listened indulgently to his chatter, and rebuked Malvolio for the sour ill-temper with which he tried to snub the fool’s sallies. In addition to his fool’s wit, Feste possessed a gift of real power, a wonderfully sweet voice for singing, and wherever he went could be heard snatches of song, gay and jocund, or plaintive and of touching pathos.

Olivia’s waiting-maid, Maria, regarded Malvolio with no more favour than did the rest of this noisy company. She was a quick-witted, lively young person, delighting in fun, and Malvolio’s solemn primness and rigid severity seemed to her nothing but hypocrisy.

“An affected ass,” she described him, with small reverence, “with the best possible opinion of himself; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences that he firmly believes that all who look on him love him.”

And it was from this intense self-conceit of Malvolio’s that this mischievous little band of conspirators--Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Feste the clown, and Maria--found means to revenge themselves by playing a humiliating trick on the pompous steward.

When Viola, in the character of Cesario, reached Olivia’s house, she was at first refused admittance, but as she announced her intention of standing at the door until she had given her message, and absolutely declined to take any denial, Olivia at last consented to see her.

“Give me my veil,” she said to Maria. “Come, throw it over my face. We will once more hear Orsino’s embassy;” and Viola, attended by four or five servants of the Duke, was ushered into her presence.

“The honourable lady of the house, which is she?” she demanded.

“Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?” said Olivia curtly.

“Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,” began Viola, with high-flown gallantry, and enjoying the humour of her own words, for, as Olivia was closely veiled, she could not see whom she was addressing. Not in the least abashed, however, by that lady’s stately dignity, she begged permission to deliver her message, and to speak it to Olivia alone. The quaint impertinence of the pretty lad, his ready wit, and his noble bearing, took Olivia’s fancy, and, instead of dismissing him abruptly, as had been her first intention, she sent away her attendants and bade him speak on.

But when Viola uttered Orsino’s name, Olivia, as usual, drew back. Even from this messenger she had no wish to hear of Orsino’s devotion, and she checked him rather abruptly.

“Have you no more to say?” she added.

“Good madam, let me see your face,” pleaded Viola, for she longed to behold the lady who could so enchant Duke Orsino.

“Have you any commission from your lord to see my face?” asked Olivia, not ill-pleased. “You are now out of your message; but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I am now. Is it not well done?”

She threw back her veil, and her dazzling beauty shone forth in all its radiance.

Viola gazed at her in admiration.

“Excellently done, if God did all,” she murmured, for she could scarcely believe such loveliness of tint could be natural.

“’Tis in grain, sir; it will endure wind and weather,” replied Olivia.

“It is beauty truly blent, whose red and white were laid on by Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand,” said Viola. “Lady, you are the cruellest person alive if you let these graces go down to the grave and leave the world no copy.”

“Oh, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted,” said Olivia, with gentle sarcasm; “I will give out divers schedules of my beauty; it shall be all entered in an inventory, and duly labelled; as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?”

“I see you what you are--you are too proud,” said Viola. “My lord and master loves you. Oh, such love deserves its recompense, though you were crowned peerless in beauty.”

To this Olivia replied that Orsino knew her mind; she could not love him. She knew him to be noble, of great estate and stainless youth, generous in disposition, learned, valiant, graceful, and handsome in person. Yet she could not love him. He might have taken his answer long ago.

“If I loved you as my master does, with such fire and suffering, I would find no sense in your denial,” said Viola. “I would not understand it.”

“Why, what would you do?”

“Make me a willow cabin at your gate, write loyal songs of love, and sing them loud, even in the dead of night,” cried Viola; “call out your name to the echoing hills, and make the babbling air cry out ‘Olivia!’ Oh, you should have no rest, but you should pity me!”

“You might do much,” said Olivia, with assumed sarcasm, but really touched by the young page’s enthusiasm. “What is your parentage?”

“Above my fortunes, yet my estate is good.”

“Get you to your lord; I cannot love him. Let him send no more--unless, perchance, you come to me again to tell me how he takes it. Fare you well; I thank you for your pains. Spend this for me.”

“I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse,” said Viola. “My master, not myself, lacks recompense. When your turn comes to love, may your own lover’s heart be made of flint, and may your affection, like my master’s, be held in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty!”

Viola had done her best for her master, but the only success she had was to win his lady’s heart for herself. The stately lady Olivia, so cold and proud to the noble Duke Orsino, was now forced to own to herself that she found a strange fascination in this young page. He had refused the gift of money which, in accordance with the custom of those times, Olivia had offered, but she could not let him pass out of her sight, perhaps for ever, without a remembrance.

“What ho! Malvolio!” she called.

“Here, madam, at your service.”

“Run after that same peevish messenger, the Duke Orsino’s man,” she said. “He left this ring behind him. Tell him I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter his lord, nor feed him up with hope. I will never marry him. If the youth will come this way to-morrow, I will give him reasons for it. Hasten, Malvolio.”

“Madam, I will,” said the steward; and he stiffly departed, and ungraciously fulfilled his errand.

Viola had given no ring to Olivia, and she could not fail to see that the Countess intended this gift as a mark of favour, and had taken a great liking for herself. This was anything but pleasing to her, for she knew it could lead to nothing but fresh trouble.

“Poor lady! she had better love a dream,” she thought. “How will matters turn out? My master loves her dearly; I, poor fool! am just as fond of him; and she, mistaken, seems to doat on me! What will become of this? O time, you must untangle it, not I! It is too hard a knot for me to unravel.”

A Dream of Greatness

The disagreement always existing between the steward Malvolio and the riotous members of Olivia’s household broke at last into warfare. On the night of the day when Duke Orsino’s messenger came to Olivia, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew chose to sit up late, drinking and singing. Feste, the clown, joined them, and after one song, sung sweetly enough by himself, the whole trio united in yelling out a noisy catch. The din they made roused the household, and Maria came hurrying in to beg them to be quiet.

“Why, what a caterwauling you keep here!” she cried. “If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bade him turn you out of doors, never trust me.”

But all her attempts to silence them were useless. They laughed, shouted, called for more wine, and went on singing at the pitch of their voices. In vain she begged for peace; they were quite beyond control. When Malvolio himself appeared, they paid no more heed to him than they had done to Maria, and only answered his rebuking words by each singing at him in turn snatches of different songs.

“My masters, are you mad, or what are you?” he cried, with just indignation. “Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do you make an alehouse of my lady’s house that you squeak out your vulgar catches at the top of your voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?”

“We did keep time, sir, in our catches,” said Sir Toby. “Shut up!”

“Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she is not allied to your bad behaviour. If you can separate yourself from your misdoings, you are welcome to the house; if not, if it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone!” trolled out Sir Toby, in mock melancholy, and not in the least impressed by Malvolio’s stern rebuke.

“Nay, good Sir Toby,” pleaded Maria.

“‘His eyes do show his days are almost done,’” chimed in the clown, carrying on the song.

All Malvolio’s angry speeches were met with the same musical mockery, and nothing would make the culprits stop. Almost speechless with fury, Malvolio left the revellers, declaring that his lady should know of their goings-on.

“Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night,” urged Maria. “Since the youth of Duke Orsino’s was to-day with my lady, she is much disquieted. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a by-word and make him a general laughing-stock, never trust my wit. I know I can do it.”

“Good, good! Tell us something about him,” said Sir Toby.

“Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan,” said Maria.

“Oh, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog!” cried the silly Sir Andrew.

“What, for being a puritan?” asked Sir Toby, who was always ready to ridicule Sir Andrew’s brainless remarks, though he made such a companion of him. “Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?”

“I have no exquisite reason for it, but I have reason good enough,” said the foolish young man sulkily.

Maria then went on to say that Malvolio’s self-conceit as to his own merits was so great that he imagined everyone who looked at him loved him, and this would give them an opening for their revenge. She would drop in his way some vaguely expressed letters of love, in which he should find his different peculiarities so well described that there could be no doubt as to whom was meant. She could write very like the lady Olivia; in fact, they sometimes could not tell their own handwritings apart. Malvolio would think the letters he found came from Olivia, and that she was in love with him.

Maria’s trick was not a very praiseworthy one, but her hearers were not troubled with scruples. They only thought how delightfully comic it would be to see the stiff and starched steward priding himself on the conquest he had made, and what deep humiliation would fall on him when his mistake was discovered.

* * * * *

Maria was not long in carrying out her scheme, and Malvolio was immediately caught with the bait. Having once got into his mind the absurd idea that the Countess Olivia was in love with him, he began weaving plans of what he should do when he was advanced to the high position of her husband. His ambitious meditations were overheard by the conspirators, for Maria had run into the garden to warn them of his approach.

“Get all three into the box-tree,” she cried; “Malvolio is coming down this walk. He has been yonder in the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half-hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery, for I know this letter will make an idiot of him. Hide, in the name of jesting!... Lie thou there,” she added, throwing down a letter, “for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.”

“It is but fortune--all is fortune,” murmured Malvolio, as he paced along with solemn stride. “Maria once told me that she liked me, and I have heard herself go so far as to say that if ever she fancied anyone, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she treats me with more exalted respect than any one else of her followers. What should I think of it?”

Malvolio’s imagination now soared beyond all bounds, and he marched up and down, pluming himself like a turkey-cock.

“To be Count Malvolio!” he exclaimed in ecstasy, and forthwith began to consider how he should comport himself in that exalted sphere.

“Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,” he mused, gesticulating to himself as if all he described were really taking place, “calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown, and telling them I knew my place, as I wished they should know theirs, I would ask for my kinsman Toby. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make for him; I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby approaches, bows humbly to me----”