“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.