Katharine, the Shrew, was the eldest
daughter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua.
She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and
fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was
known in Padua by no other name than Katharine the
Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible,
that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture
to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much
blamed for deferring his consent to many excellent
offers that were made to her gentle sister Bianca,
putting off all Bianca’s suitors with this excuse,
that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands,
they should have free leave to address young Bianca.
It happened, however, that a gentleman,
named Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to look
out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these
reports of Katharine’s temper, and hearing she
was rich and handsome, resolved upon marrying this
famous termagant, and taming her into a meek and manageable
wife. And truly none was so fit to set about this
herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as
high as Katharine’s, and he was a witty and
most happy-tempered humourist, and withal so wise,
and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how
to feign a passionate and furious deportment, when
his spirits were so calm that himself could have laughed
merrily at his own angry feigning, for his natural
temper was careless and easy; the boisterous airs he
assumed when he became the husband of Katharine being
but in sport, or more properly speaking, affected
by his excellent discernment, as the only means to
overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the
furious Katharine.
A courting then Petruchio went to
Katharine the Shrew; and first of all he applied to
Baptista her father, for leave to woo his gentle
daughter Katharine, as Petruchio called her, saying
archly, that having heard of her bashful modesty and
mild behaviour, he had come from Verona to solicit
her love. Her father, though he wished her married,
was forced to confess Katharine would ill answer this
character, it being soon apparent of what manner of
gentleness she was composed, for her music-master
rushed into the room to complain that the gentle Katharine,
his pupil, had broken his head with her lute, for presuming
to find fault with her performance; which, when Petruchio
heard, he said, “It is a brave wench; I love
her more than ever, and long to have some chat with
her;” and hurrying the old gentleman for a positive
answer, he said, “My business is in haste, Signior
Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You
knew my father: he is dead, and has left me heir
to all his lands and goods. Then tell me, if
I get your daughter’s love, what dowry you will
give with her.” Baptista thought his manner
was somewhat blunt for a lover; but being glad to
get Katharine married, he answered that he would give
her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half
his estate at his death: so this odd match was
quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his
shrewish daughter of her lover’s addresses,
and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to his suit.
In the meantime Petruchio was settling
with himself the mode of courtship he should pursue;
and he said, “I will woo her with some spirit
when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I
will tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale;
and if she frowns, I will say she looks as clear as
roses newly washed with dew. If she will not speak
a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language;
and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks
as if she bid me stay with her a week.”
Now the stately Katharine entered, and Petruchio first
addressed her with “Good morrow, Kate, for that
is your name, I hear.” Katharine, not liking
this plain salutation, said disdainfully, “They
call me Katharine who do speak to me.”
“You lie,” replied the lover; “for
you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes
Kate the Shrew: but, Kate, you are the prettiest
Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, hearing
your mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo
you for my wife.”
A strange courtship they made of it.
She in loud and angry terms showing him how justly
she had gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised
her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing
her father coming, he said (intending to make as quick
a wooing as possible), “Sweet Katharine, let
us set this idle chat aside, for your father has consented
that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on,
and whether you will or no, I will marry you.”
And now Baptista entering, Petruchio
told him his daughter had received him kindly, and
that she had promised to be married the next Sunday.
This Katharine denied, saying she would rather see
him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for
wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio.
Petruchio desired her father not to regard her angry
words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant
before him, but that when they were alone he had found
her very fond and loving; and he said to her, “Give
me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you
fine apparel against our wedding day. Provide
the feast, father, and bid the wedding guests.
I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich
clothes, that my Katharine may be fine; and kiss me,
Kate, for we will be married on Sunday.”
On the Sunday all the wedding guests
were assembled, but they waited long before Petruchio
came, and Katharine wept for vexation to think that
Petruchio had only been making a jest of her.
At last, however, he appeared; but he brought none
of the bridal finery he had promised Katharine, nor
was he dressed himself like a bridegroom, but in strange
disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of
the serious business he came about; and his servant
and the very horses on which they rode were in like
manner in mean and fantastic fashion habited.
Petruchio could not be persuaded to
change his dress; he said Katharine was to be married
to him, and not to his clothes; and finding it was
in vain to argue with him, to the church they went,
he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the
priest asked Petruchio if Katharine should be his
wife, he swore so loud that she should, that, all amazed,
the priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to
take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such
a cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again.
And all the while they were being married he stamped
and swore so, that the high-spirited Katharine trembled
and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over,
while they were yet in the church, he called for wine,
and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a
sop which was at the bottom of the glass full in the
sexton’s face, giving no other reason for this
strange act, than that the sexton’s beard grew
thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he
was drinking. Never sure was there such a mad
marriage; but Petruchio did but put this wildness
on, the better to succeed in the plot he had formed
to tame his shrewish wife.
Baptista had provided a sumptuous
marriage feast, but when they returned from church,
Petruchio, taking hold of Katharine, declared his
intention of carrying his wife home instantly:
and no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry
words of the enraged Katharine, could make him change
his purpose. He claimed a husband’s right
to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he
hurried Katharine off: he seeming so daring and
resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him.
Petruchio mounted his wife upon a
miserable horse, lean and lank, which he had picked
out for the purpose, and himself and his servant no
better mounted; they journeyed on through rough and
miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katharine’s
stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor jaded
beast, who could scarce crawl under his burthen, as
if he had been the most passionate man alive.
At length, after a weary journey,
during which Katharine had heard nothing but the wild
ravings of Petruchio at the servant and the horses,
they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed
her kindly to her home, but he resolved she should
have neither rest nor food that night. The tables
were spread, and supper soon served; but Petruchio,
pretending to find fault with every dish, threw the
meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to
remove it away; and all this he did, as he said, in
love for his Katharine, that she might not eat meat
that was not well dressed. And when Katharine,
weary and supperless, retired to rest, he found the
same fault with the bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes
about the room, so that she was forced to sit down
in a chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep, she
was presently awakened by the loud voice of her husband,
storming at the servants for the ill-making of his
wife’s bridal-bed.
The next day Petruchio pursued the
same course, still speaking kind words to Katharine,
but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with
everything that was set before her, throwing the breakfast
on the floor as he had done the supper; and Katharine,
the haughty Katharine, was fain to beg the servants
would bring her secretly a morsel of food; but they
being instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared
not give her anything unknown to their master.
“Ah,” said she, “did he marry me
to famish me? Beggars that come to my father’s
door have food given them. But I, who never knew
what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for
want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept
waking, and with brawling fed; and that which vexes
me more than all, he does it under the name of perfect
love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present
death to me.” Here the soliloquy was interrupted
by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning
she should be quite starved, had brought her a small
portion of meat, and he said to her, “How fares
my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent
I am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure
this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word?
Nay, then you love not the meat, and all the pains
I have taken is to no purpose.” He then
ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme
hunger, which had abated the pride of Katharine, made
her say, though angered to the heart, “I pray
you let it stand.” But this was not all
Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied,
“The poorest service is repaid with thanks,
and so shall mine before you touch the meat.”
On this Katharine brought out a reluctant “I
thank you, sir.” And now he suffered her
to make a slender meal, saying, “Much good may
it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! And
now, my honey love, we will return to your father’s
house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken
coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs
and fans and double change of finery;” and to
make her believe he really intended to give her these
gay things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher,
who brought some new clothes he had ordered for her,
and then giving her plate to the servant to take away,
before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said,
“What, have you dined?” The haberdasher
presented a cap, saying, “Here is the cap your
worship bespoke;” on which Petruchio began to
storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded in a porringer,
and that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut
shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away and
make it bigger. Katharine said, “I will
have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these.” “When
you are gentle,” replied Petruchio, “you
shall have one too, and not till then.”
The meat Katharine had eaten had a little revived her
fallen spirits, and she said, “Why, sir, I trust
I may have leave to speak, and speak I will:
I am no child, no babe; your betters have endured to
hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had better
stop your ears.” Petruchio would not hear
these angry words, for he had happily discovered a
better way of managing his wife than keeping up a
jangling argument with her; therefore his answer was,
“Why, you say true; it is a paltry cap, and I
love you for not liking it.” “Love
me, or love me not,” said Katharine, “I
like the cap, and I will have this cap or none.” “You
say you wish to see the gown,” said Petruchio,
still affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor
then came forward and showed her a fine gown he had
made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was that
she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much
fault with that. “O mercy, Heaven!”
said he, “what stuff is here! What, do
you call this a sleeve? it is like a demi-cannon,
carved up and down like an apple tart.”
The tailor said, “You bid me make it according
to the fashion of the times;” and Katharine
said, she never saw a better fashioned gown. This
was enough for Petruchio, and privately desiring these
people might be paid for their goods, and excuses
made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he
bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and furious
gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of
the room; and then, turning to Katharine, he said,
“Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s
even in these mean garments we now wear.”
And then he ordered his horses, affirming they should
reach Baptista’s house by dinner-time, for that
it was but seven o’clock. Now it was not
early morning, but the very middle of the day, when
he spoke this; therefore Katharine ventured to say,
though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence
of his manner, “I dare assure you, sir, it is
two o’clock, and will be supper-time before
we get there.” But Petruchio meant that
she should be so completely subdued, that she should
assent to everything he said, before he carried her
to her father; and therefore, as if he were lord even
of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it
should be what time he pleased to have it, before
he set forward; “For,” he said, “whatever
I say or do, you still are crossing it. I will
not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o’clock
I say it is.” Another day Katharine was
forced to practise her newly-found obedience, and not
till he had brought her proud spirit to such a perfect
subjection, that she dared not remember there was
such a word as contradiction, would Petruchio allow
her to go to her father’s house; and even while
they were upon their journey thither, she was in danger
of being turned back again, only because she happened
to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon
shone brightly at noonday. “Now, by my mother’s
son,” said he, “and that is myself, it
shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list, before
I journey to your father’s house.”
He then made as if he were going back again; but Katharine,
no longer Katharine the Shrew, but the obedient wife,
said, “Let us go forward, I pray, now we have
come so far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or
what you please, and if you please to call it a rush
candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so for me.”
This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said again,
“I say, it is the moon.” “I
know it is the moon,” replied Katharine.
“You lie, it is the blessed sun,” said
Petruchio. “Then it is the blessed sun,”
replied Katharine; “but sun it is not, when you
say it is not. What you will have it named, even
so it is, and so it ever shall be for Katharine.”
Now then he suffered her to proceed on her journey;
but further to try if this yielding humour would last,
he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road
as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, “Good
morrow, gentle mistress;” and asked Katharine
if she had ever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising
the red and white of the old man’s cheeks, and
comparing his eyes to two bright stars; and again he
addressed him, saying, “Fair lovely maid, once
more good day to you!” and said to his wife,
“Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s
sake.” The now completely vanquished Katharine
quickly adopted her husband’s opinion, and made
her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying
to him, “Young budding virgin, you are fair,
and fresh, and sweet: whither are you going,
and where is your dwelling? Happy are the parents
of so fair a child.” “Why, how
now, Kate,” said Petruchio; “I hope you
are not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled,
faded and withered, and not a maiden, as you say he
is.” On this Katharine said, “Pardon
me, old gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes,
that everything I look on seemeth green. Now
I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope you
will pardon me for my sad mistake.” “Do,
good old grandsire,” said Petruchio, “and
tell us which way you are travelling. We shall
be glad of your good company, if you are going our
way.” The old gentleman replied, “Fair
sir, and you, my merry mistress, your strange encounter
has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and
I am going to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua.”
Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman to be the father
of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married
to Baptista’s younger daughter, Bianca, and
he made Vincentio very happy, by telling him the rich
marriage his son was about to make: and they all
journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to
Baptista’s house, where there was a large company
assembled to celebrate the wedding of Bianca and Lucentio,
Baptista having willingly consented to the marriage
of Bianca when he had got Katharine off his hands.
When they entered, Baptista welcomed
them to the wedding feast, and there was present also
another newly married pair.
Lucentio, Bianca’s husband,
and Hortensio, the other new married man, could not
forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish
disposition of Petruchio’s wife, and these fond
bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the mild tempers
of the ladies they had chosen, laughing at Petruchio
for his less fortunate choice. Petruchio took
little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired
after dinner, and then he perceived Baptista himself
joined in the laugh against him: for when Petruchio
affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient than
theirs, the father of Katharine said, “Now, in
good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the
veriest shrew of all.” “Well,”
said Petruchio, “I say no, and therefore for
assurance that I speak the truth, let us each one
send for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient
to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a
wager which we will propose.” To this the
other two husbands willingly consented, for they were
quite confident that their gentle wives would prove
more obedient than the headstrong Katharine; and they
proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily
said, he would lay as much as that upon his hawk or
hound, but twenty times as much upon his wife.
Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred
crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to desire
Bianca would come to him. But the servant returned,
and said, “Sir, my mistress sends you word she
is busy and cannot come.” “How,”
said Petruchio, “does she say she is busy and
cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?”
Then they laughed at him, and said, it would be well
if Katharine did not send him a worse answer.
And now it was Hortensio’s turn to send for his
wife; and he said to his servant, “Go, and entreat
my wife to come to me.” “Oh ho! entreat
her!” said Petruchio. “Nay, then,
she needs must come.” “I am
afraid, sir,” said Hortensio, “your wife
will not be entreated.” But presently this
civil husband looked a little blank, when the servant
returned without his mistress; and he said to him,
“How now! Where is my wife?” “Sir,”
said the servant, “my mistress says, you have
some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not
come. She bids you come to her.” “Worse
and worse!” said Petruchio; and then he sent
his servant, saying, “Sirrah, go to your mistress,
and tell her I command her to come to me.”
The company had scarcely time to think she would not
obey this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed,
“Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharine!”
and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, “What
is your will, sir, that you send for me?” “Where
is your sister and Hortensio’s wife?”
said he. Katharine replied, “They sit conferring
by the parlour fire.” “Go,
fetch them hither!” said Petruchio. Away
went Katharine without reply to perform her husband’s
command. “Here is a wonder,” said
Lucentio, “if you talk of a wonder.” “And
so it is,” said Hortensio; “I marvel what
it bodes.” “Marry, peace it
bodes,” said Petruchio, “and love, and
quiet life, and right supremacy; and, to be short,
everything that is sweet and happy.” Katharine’s
father, overjoyed to see this reformation in his daughter,
said, “Now, fair befall thee, son Petruchio!
you have won the wager, and I will add another twenty
thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another
daughter, for she is changed as if she had never been.” “Nay,”
said Petruchio, “I will win the wager better
yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue and
obedience.” Katharine now entering with
the two ladies, he continued, “See where she
comes, and brings your froward wives as prisoners
to her womanly persuasion. Katharine, that cap
of yours does not become you; off with that bauble,
and throw it under foot.” Katharine instantly
took off her cap, and threw it down. “Lord!”
said Hortensio’s wife, “may I never have
a cause to sigh till I am brought to such a silly
pass!” And Bianca, she too said, “Fie,
what foolish duty call you this?” On this Bianca’s
husband said to her, “I wish your duty were
as foolish too! The wisdom of your duty, fair
Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinner-time.” “The
more fool you,” said Bianca, “for laying
on my duty.” “Katharine,”
said Petruchio, “I charge you tell these headstrong
women what duty they owe their lords and husbands.”
And to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish
lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wife-like
duty of obedience, as she had practised it implicitly
in a ready submission to Petruchio’s will.
And Katharine once more became famous in Padua, not
as heretofore, as Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine
the most obedient and duteous wife in Padua.