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.
[Illustration: “Fear not, they shall not touch thee, Kate!”]
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.”
[Illustration: “What’s this? A sleeve?”]
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.
[Illustration: “Come, Kate!... Good-night!”]