Rose, Huntington Library and Gardens, Pasadena, California, USA (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
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Oh, bold Katherina. At the beginning of the play, she is the shrew personified: refusing any and all suitors coming to woo her, smashing a lute over the head of Hortensio (allegedly a teacher, but actually a suitor of her much more docile younger sister Bianca), never missing an occasion to spew hatred on that same Bianca, and so sharp-tongued that even the valiant Prince of Denmark might have come to respect the daggers, or to stick with this play's own metaphors, the "waspish" sting of her tongue. Yet, when she is married against her will to Petruchio, who has vowed to marry rich (which she certainly is), no matter what the woman's character, and who is actually attracted by the obvious wit shining through her quick repartees – for in hardly any Shakesperean dialogue short of those between Beatrice and Benedick in "Much Ado About Nothing" the sparks fly as much as in Katherina's and Petruchio's first encounter – Katherina loses the independent footing that her (or her father Baptista's) money had provided her; even if she gains the (on its face) socially much more respectable position of a wife. Unlike the heroines of Shakespeare's later "Battle of the Sexes" comedies – most notably Rosalind in "As You Like It" and the aforementioned Beatrice – Katherina doesn't seem to be allowed to maintain (or regain) her former independence and brashness in her new state; instead, she undergoes a rather brutal "taming" at the hands of her new husband, and facially, her closing soliloquy reads like a sermon on the virtues of wifely obedience and humility that could have been written by Tertullian, Saint Jerome or Saint John Chrysostom. But should we really take all that hyperbole literally? Has Katherina just caved in to her husband's relentless put-downs? I think not. I have the sneaking suspicion that these words are actually spoken by a woman who has discovered not merely wifely respectability but love – and who has come to understand that a woman loved (at least loved by a husband like Petruchio, who truthfully doesn't give tuppence for docility) doesn't need to assert herself this forcefully all the time ... and I would not be surprised at all to one day come across a stage production at whose end Katherina and Petruchio together, and in a rather tongue-in-cheek fashion at that, teach the other couples the true secret of marital bliss.
Gentlemen, importune me no farther,
For how I firmly am resolv'd you know;
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter
Before I have a husband for the elder.
If either of you both love Katherina,
Because I know you well and love you well,
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.
To cart her rather. She's too rough for me.
There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?
I pray you, sir, is it your will
To make a stale of me amongst these mates?
Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you,
Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.
I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;
Iwis it is not halfway to her heart;
But if it were, doubt not her care should be
To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool,
And paint your face, and use you like a fool.
From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!
And me, too, good Lord!
Husht, master! Here's some good pastime toward;
That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.
But in the other's silence do I see
Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety.
Peace, Tranio!
Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.
Gentlemen, that I may soon make good
What I have said- Bianca, get you in;
And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,
For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.
A pretty peat! it is best
Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.
Sister, content you in my discontent.
Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe;
My books and instruments shall be my company,
On them to look, and practise by myself.
Hark, Tranio, thou mayst hear Minerva speak!
Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?
Sorry am I that our good will effects
Bianca's grief.
Why will you mew her up,
Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,
And make her bear the penance of her tongue?
Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv'd.
Go in, Bianca.
And for I know she taketh most delight
In music, instruments, and poetry,
Schoolmasters will I keep within my house
Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,
Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such,
Prefer them hither; for to cunning men
I will be very kind, and liberal
To mine own children in good bringing-up;
And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay;
For I have more to commune with Bianca.
Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not?
What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,
I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha!
Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,
To make a bondmaid and a slave of me –
That I disdain; but for these other gawds,
Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,
Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;
Or what you will command me will I do,
So well I know my duty to my elders.
Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell
Whom thou lov'st best. See thou dissemble not.
Believe me, sister, of all the men alive
I never yet beheld that special face
Which I could fancy more than any other.
Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hortensio?
If you affect him, sister, here I swear
I'll plead for you myself but you shall have him.
O then, belike, you fancy riches more:
You will have Gremio to keep you fair.
Is it for him you do envy me so?
Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive
You have but jested with me all this while.
I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.
If that be jest, then an the rest was so.
Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence?
Bianca, stand aside – poor girl! she weeps.
Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.
For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,
Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee?
When did she cross thee with a bitter word?
Her silence flouts me, and I'll be reveng'd.
What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.
What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see
She is your treasure, she must have a husband;
I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,
And for your love to her lead apes in hell.
Talk not to me; I will go sit and weep,
Till I can find occasion of revenge.
Good morrow, Kate – for that's your name, I hear.
Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:
They call me Katherine that do talk of me.
You lie, in faith, for you are call'd plain Kate,
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;
But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,
Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,
For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation –
Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,
Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.
Mov'd! in good time! Let him that mov'd you hither
Remove you hence. I knew you at the first
You were a moveable.
Why, what's a moveable?
A join'd-stool.
Thou hast hit it. Come, sit on me.
Asses are made to bear, and so are you.
Women are made to bear, and so are you.
No such jade as you, if me you mean.
Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee!
For, knowing thee to be but young and light –
Too light for such a swain as you to catch;
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.
Should be! should – buzz!
Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.
O, slow-wing'd turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?
Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.
Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
My remedy is then to pluck it out.
Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.
Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?
In his tail.
In his tongue.
Whose tongue?
Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.
What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,
Good Kate; I am a gentleman.
That I'll try.
I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again.
So may you lose your arms.
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why then no arms.
A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books!
What is your crest – a coxcomb?
A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.
No cock of mine: you crow too like a craven.
Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.
It is my fashion, when I see a crab.
Why, here's no crab; and therefore look not sour.
There is, there is.
Then show it me.
Had I a glass I would.
What, you mean my face?
Well aim'd of such a young one.
Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.
Yet you are wither'd.
'Tis with cares.
I care not.
Nay, hear you, Kate – in sooth, you scape not so.
I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.
No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.
'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,
And now I find report a very liar;
For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,
But slow in speech, yet sweet as springtime flowers.
Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,
Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,
Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;
But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers;
With gentle conference, soft and affable.
Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?
O sland'rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig
Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue
As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.
O, let me see thee walk. Thou dost not halt.
Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.
Did ever Dian so become a grove
As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?
O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate;
And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!
Where did you study all this goodly speech?
It is extempore, from my mother wit.
A witty mother! witless else her son.
Am I not wise?
Yes, keep you warm.
Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed.
And therefore, setting all this chat aside,
Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented
That you shall be my wife your dowry greed on;
And will you, nill you, I will marry you.
Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;
For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,
Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,
Thou must be married to no man but me;
For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
Conformable as other household Kates.
Here comes your father. Never make denial;
I must and will have Katherine to my wife.
Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?
How but well, sir? how but well?
It were impossible I should speed amiss.
Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps?
Call you me daughter? Now I promise you
You have show'd a tender fatherly regard
To wish me wed to one half lunatic,
A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.
Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world
That talk'd of her have talk'd amiss of her.
If she be curst, it is for policy,
For, she's not froward, but modest as the dove;
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
For patience she will prove a second Grissel,
And Roman Lucrece for her chastity.
And, to conclude, we have 'greed so well together
That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.
I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.
Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee hang'd first.
Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part!
Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself;
If she and I be pleas'd, what's that to you?
'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,
That she shall still be curst in company.
I tell you 'tis incredible to believe.
How much she loves me – O, the kindest Kate!
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
That in a twink she won me to her love.
O, you are novices! 'Tis a world to see,
How tame, when men and women are alone,
A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.
Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice,
To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;
I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine.
I know not what to say; but give me your hands.
God send you joy, Petruchio! 'Tis a match.
Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.
Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.
I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace;
We will have rings and things, and fine array;
And kiss me, Kate; we will be married a Sunday.
Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor.
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled –
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience –
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is forward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
I am asham'd that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toll and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you forward and unable worins!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband's foot;
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready, may it do him ease.
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Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.