The Taming of the Shrew

“Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray, / Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks / As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured.”

When Tranio cautions Lucentio not to get so caught up in Aristotle that he misses out on Ovid, he’s foreshadowing the rest of the play in more than one way. The Roman poet Ovid was known as the author of The Art of Love (the other course of study Tranio is recommending to his master here) as well as Metamorphoses, stories of transformation. Both love and surprising transformations become themes throughout the play.

“TRANIO

I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

LUCENTIO

O Tranio, till I found it to be true,

I never thought it possible or likely.

But see, while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of love-in-idleness,

And now in plainness do confess to thee

That art to me as secret and as dear

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was:

Tranio, I burn, I pine! I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl.”

This exchange between Tranio and Lucentio makes clear what the audience has already gathered: The gentleman Lucentio is a bit ridiculous, the picture of an addlepated young lover, and the servant Tranio is the wiser of the two by far. To his credit, Lucentio is aware of this, and he turns to Tranio when he needs a plan to win his lady-love. This dynamic is almost a counterpoint to the Christopher Sly frame story: Sly makes a terrible lord, but Tranio is a completely creditable Lucentio once in disguise.

“Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafèd with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field

And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitchèd battle heard

Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear

As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire?

Tush, tush, fear boys with bugs!”

When Petruchio brags that no scolding woman can frighten him, he also gives us a portrait of his past life. While he’s the son of a nobleman, he’s clearly also lived an active and adventurous life as a traveler and a soldier. His pragmatic, gold-first view of marriage seems to be founded on substantial experience of the world—experience the wet-behind-the-ears Lucentio can’t claim.

“Say that she rail, why then I’ll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.

Say that she frown, I’ll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly washed with dew.

Say she be mute and will not speak a word,

Then I’ll commend her volubility

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks

As though she bid me stay by her a week.

If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day

When I shall ask the banns, and when be marrièd.”

Petruchio’s scheme here is some combination of reverse psychology and sheer bullheadedness. Whatever Katherine tries, he’ll deflect it not by fighting back but by absorbing the blow and transforming it into stylized love-talk. This is yet another kind of metamorphosis: beyond disguise and deceit, there’s the plain denial of reality. But that denial will bear real fruits, and perhaps Petruchio is also betting that someone with a reputation like Katherine’s might like it if someone described her as sweet and lovable.

“PETRUCHIO

Come, come, you wasp! I’ faith, you are too angry.

KATHERINE

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO

My remedy is then to pluck it out.

KATHERINE

Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

PETRUCHIO

Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?

In his tail.

KATHERINE

In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO

Whose tongue?

KATHERINE

Yours, if you talk of tales, and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO

What, with my tongue in your tail?

Nay, come again, good Kate.”

This, just one passage in the long battle of wits between Katherine and Petruchio, gives a good indication of how that battle progresses. Each line here builds on the one before, layering pun on pun until Petruchio gets the opportunity to land a dirty joke—after which Katherine smacks him. Even as Petruchio is clearly determined to get his way no matter how Katherine feels about anything, there’s a sense that the two might actually be a good match for each other. No one else in the play has kept up with either one of them so easily.

“Hic ibat Simois, I know you not; hic est Sigeia tellus, I trust you not; Hic steterat Priami, take heed he hear us not; regia, presume not; celsa senis, despair not.”

Bianca’s reply to Lucentio uses the same technique he’s just used to reveal his plan and identity to her; she pretends she’s translating Ovid while in fact delivering her own message. Both Bianca’s method and her reply suggest that, as Katherine has accused, she’s less an ideal, demure maiden and more a calculating schemer. The particular passage she’s quoting here might also hint at trouble to come: This moment in Ovid refers to the ruins of Troy, the city legendarily destroyed in a war over the beautiful Helen.

“Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points; his horse hipped, with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred, besides possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine, troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten, near-legged before, and with a half-checked bit and a headstall of sheep’s leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s crupper of velour, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread.”

Biondello’s report of Petruchio’s wedding outfit is pure Shakespearean linguistic exuberance. It also contributes to the overall effect of Petruchio’s eventual appearance: No matter how ridiculous the actor playing Petruchio looks when he eventually arrives, the sheer volume and detail of this description can only make him more so. In fact, a lot of Petruchio’s weird behavior on his wedding day is revealed to the audience through report rather than direct action—a technique that means the audience gets to appreciate the tellers’ reactions as much as Petruchio’s absurdity.

“I will be master of what is mine own.

She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything.

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare.”

Petruchio’s “defense” of Katherine is comical, but to a modern reader it might also feel a little sinister. Legally, Katherine is indeed Petruchio’s “chattel” now, his livestock, his possession—and that’s a dangerous state of affairs. As Baptista’s careful negotiations over Bianca’s dowry (including provisions for her hypothetical widowhood) suggest, married women in Shakespeare’s time were at the legal mercy of their husbands.

“Tell thou the tale! But hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled, how he left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me because her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore, how she prayed that never prayed before, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper, with many things of worthy memory which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.”

Aside from the obvious comic irony—Grumio refuses to tell a fellow servant exactly the story he then proceeds to tell—this is a good example of the play’s way of keeping certain scenes offstage. Grumio’s vivid description accomplishes several things it would be difficult to do onstage: horses and mud would have been tricky to reproduce in a bare Elizabethan theater. Description plays as important a role as action here.

“Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

And ’tis my hope to end successfully.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,

And, till she stoop, she must not be full-gorged,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard,

To make her come and know her keeper’s call.

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites

That bate and beat and will not be obedient.

She ate no meat today, nor none shall eat.

Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not.

As with the meat, some undeservèd fault

I’ll find about the making of the bed,

And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

This way the coverlet, another way the sheets.

Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

That all is done in reverend care of her.

And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night,

And, if she chance to nod, I’ll rail and brawl,

And with the clamor keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.

And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humor.

He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak; ’tis charity to shew.”

At last, Petruchio explains his plan: He intends to “tame” Katherine as if she were a recalcitrant hawk. This monologue puts Petruchio—whose strange behavior has baffled everyone who knows him—in the audience’s confidence, making them coconspirators. And perhaps the audience isn’t altogether comfortable with that. To modern viewers, Petruchio’s scheme seems pretty sinister. To Shakespeare’s contemporaries, though, this would have been good clean fun. The idea that angry women needed to be “tamed” wasn’t uncommon, and women could be publicly punished for all sorts of transgressions against ideals of virtuous femininity.

“And here I take the like unfeignèd oath, / Never to marry with her, though she would entreat.”

Tranio’s “unfeignèd oath” reflects the play’s interest in trickery and doubleness. Of course, on one hand, this oath is unfeigned: Tranio can happily swear never to marry Bianca without perjuring himself. On the other hand, his entire self is feigned, given he’s disguised as Lucentio, who will marry Bianca.

“I will be married to a wealthy widow

Ere three days pass, which hath as long loved me

As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard.

And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love, and so I take my leave,

In resolution as I swore before.”

Hortensio’s decision to marry a wealthy widow underscores the financial realities of this world; widows were the only women who could legally own property, inheriting it from their dead husbands. These lines also return to one of the play’s most frequent metaphors. When Hortensio calls Bianca a “haggard,” he means she’s like a wild, untamed hawk—a hawk who needs to be trained, the way Petruchio is “training” Katherine.

“The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.

What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars that come unto my father’s door

Upon entreaty have a present alms.

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity.

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep,

With oaths kept waking and with brawling fed.

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love,

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat

’Twere deadly sickness or else present death.

I prithee, go, and get me some repast,

I care not what, so it be wholesome food.”

This is one of the longest continuous speeches heard from Katherine so far. Exhausted and starving, she begs Grumio for any kind of food he can bring her—and also reveals something about her sense of familial pride. While she’s not the biggest fan of her sister or her father, she does have a strong feeling of her social status; she observes that even beggars wouldn’t be treated like this. Katherine might have an uncompromising (and socially unacceptable) temper, but she’s also deeply concerned with at least one form of propriety: station and rank.

“O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble,

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket, thou!

Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread?

Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,

Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard

As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st.

I tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her gown.”

So far, most of Petruchio’s wildest schemes have taken place offstage. In this scene the audience finally sees him in action—and he seems to be having a grand old time. Here, most of the virtuosic insults to the unfortunate tailor are derived from the lingo of the tailor’s own profession, suggesting that some of Petruchio’s skill as a trickster comes from his observant eye.

“Right true it is your son Lucentio here / Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him, / Or both dissemble deeply their affections.” 

Baptista may be joking here—or he may be in earnest, a little bit perplexed by the speedy affection that seems to have grown between “Lucentio” (that is, Tranio in disguise) and his daughter. Once again, a character says something that is true and untrue at once. Bianca is indeed “dissembling” her affection for the person going by the name “Lucentio,” but not for the real one.

“PETRUCHIO

I say it is the moon.

KATHERINE

I know it is the moon.

PETRUCHIO

Nay, then you lie. It is the blessèd sun.

KATHERINE

Then God be blest, it is the blessèd sun.

But sun it is not, when you say it is not,

And the moon changes even as your mind.

What you will have it named, even that it is,

And so it shall be so for Katherine.”

On one hand, Petruchio’s triumph over Katherine could be seen as pure gaslighting. By forcing Katherine to agree that all sorts of ridiculous falsehoods are true, Petruchio forces her to make his “reality” her own. On the other hand, this sense that reality and identity are variable is actually a piece of wisdom in this play, in which people often aren’t what they seem, and in which the sun very well might be the moon in disguise. Petruchio’s trick is thus dangerous, playful, and weirdly truthful all at once.

“Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,

Whither away, or where is thy abode?

Happy the parents of so fair a child!

Happier the man whom favorable stars

Allots thee for his lovely bedfellow.” 

Once Katherine decides to play along with Petruchio’s ridiculous claims—that the sun is the moon, and that old Vincentio is a lovely young maiden—something between them changes. Here, Katherine seems to be genuinely enjoying herself, conspiring with Petruchio to tease Vincentio rather than just grimly going along with whatever he says. Matching their wills against each other, Petruchio and Katherine have come to a new understanding (and appreciation) of each other.

“Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love

Made me exchange my state with Tranio,

While he did bear my countenance in the town,

And happily I have arrivèd at the last

Unto the wishèd haven of my bliss.

What Tranio did, myself enforced him to.

Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.” 

Lucentio’s assessment of the play’s complicated game of mistaken identities suggest that it’s not just that love makes people do stupid things. In his eyes, love actually transforms people. The outward exchange of costumes is only an expression of what’s really going on inside people: love makes people brave and/or foolish enough to undertake such complex hijinks. 

“KATHERINE

Husband, let’s follow to see the end of this ado.

PETRUCHIO

First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

KATHERINE

What, in the midst of the street?

PETRUCHIO

What, art thou ashamed of me?

KATHERINE

No, sir, God forbid, but ashamed to kiss.

PETRUCHIO

Why, then, let’s home again […]

KATHERINE

Nay, I will give thee a kiss. Now pray thee, love, stay.” 

These lines mark yet another transformation in Katherine and Petruchio’s relationship. So far, Petruchio and Katherine’s physical contact has been limited to one buffoonish kiss on their wedding day; since then, Petruchio has been too busy throwing bedclothes across the room and pitching fits for the two of them to go much further. While this kiss comes in the form of yet another challenge to Katherine’s autonomy, there seems to be a degree of real affection here, as this is the first time Katherine uses a term of endearment for her perplexing new husband.

“BIANCA

Fie, what a foolish duty call you this?

LUCENTIO

I would your duty were as foolish too.

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,

Hath cost me a hundred crowns since suppertime.

BIANCA

The more fool you for laying on my duty.”

At the end of the play, Bianca reveals that she’s not the picture of feminine virtue. To a modern reader, this moment might make Bianca seem more sympathetic than less; perhaps her husband shouldn’t be betting on her like a racehorse. But even in a modern-day reading, the underlying difficulty here is less that Bianca isn’t utterly at her new husband’s beck and call, and more that the two of them don’t seem inclined to work together. The sense that husband and wife should be a team will underlie Katherine’s final speech.

“Fie, fie! Unknit that threat’ning unkind brow,

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor.” 

Critics, actors, directors, and audiences have long debated Katherine’s speech about wifely duty and feminine weakness. In a straightforward reading this speech is merely a statement of common (and conservative) Renaissance beliefs about the ideal relationship between men and women. But it’s also a moment in which a self-proclaimed “submissive” woman takes center stage—and still displays plenty of the fiery choler that was supposedly “tamed” out of her.

“A woman moved 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.” 

The more subversive undertones of Katherine’s speech begin to appear. In these lines Katherine is both repeating the line she’s heard all her life—“nobody wants an angry woman”—and disproving it. Petruchio, after all, married her when she was still breaking lutes over people’s heads—and she doesn’t sound particularly un-“moved” even now.

“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 labor 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.” 

This passage of Katherine’s long speech is another that contemporary actors often play with a touch of irony. After all, Petruchio has done none of the heroic husbandly acts that Katherine mentions here, and neither have any of the other husbands in the play. In fact, they all seem to have comfortably lined their pockets by marrying their chosen brides. Moments like this complicate the play’s final picture of feminine submission and masculine strength—and make it seem more likely that Katherine is mocking Petruchio at exactly the same time that she plays along with him.