“There take it Prince,” said Portia quietly, “and if my form lies there then I am yours!”
He took the key and unlocked the casket. He looked within. A grey pallor over-washed his dark complexion. Not fair Portia but a Death’s head glared up at him. He had lost all. He took his sad departure with dignity and some nobility.
“A gentle riddance,” breathed Portia, much relieved, for, though she had admired the Prince, she had not loved him. “Draw the curtains, go.”
In Venice, in busy, monied Venice, all was confusion. Shylock had discovered the loss of his daughter and the loss of his gold. He was mad with dismay, not knowing which loss had plunged the sharper dagger in his heart.
“I never heard a passion so confused,” marvelled a friend of Antonio’s to another, as he related how Shylock had raved up and down the street—“ ‘My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice, the law . . .’ ”
As the other listened to the tale of the Jew’s wild distraction, he shook his head gravely. “Let good Antonio look he keep his day,” he murmured, “or he shall pay for this.”
Upon which his companion remembered, as people often do when there’s a chance of disaster for others, that he’d heard a rumour that one of Antonio’s ships had been wrecked. The two gentlemen stared at one another, and then with words, if not with hearts, expressed their deep concern for what might befall their friend Antonio if he failed to keep his bond.
In Belmont, where the concerns of Venice were as distant as the moon, another suitor had come to try for Portia’s hand. A Spanish gentleman, gorgeous in velvet and with a hand and wrist as proud as a swan’s neck. The Prince of Arragon, no less. While Portia and Nerissa and the bowing servants of the Prince looked on, the nobleman himself surveyed the caskets and the prize. Modestly Portia lowered her eyes, and hid a smile.
The leaden basket detained him not an instant: so princely a hand was never formed to touch so base a metal. Gold he toyed with, then put it by, for the good reason that it promised “what many men desire”. “I will not choose what many men desire,” he said, with a curl of his lip and a wave of his hand, “because I will not jump with common spirits, and rank me with the barbarous multitudes.” The servants bowed and murmured admiringly, while Portia and Nerissa cast their eyes to heaven. So to the silver casket he turned. “ ‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves’.” He smiled knowingly and his servants nodded at their master’s sagacity. What could such a prince as he deserve, but the very best? “Give me a key for this,” he commanded, with a snap of his fingers and a waiting hand, “and instantly unlock my fortunes here.”
The casket was opened, and the Prince looked within. He was silent. At such a moment the Moor’s complexion had turned to grey; this Prince’s colour darkened to red, and all his servants trembled.
“What’s here?” he demanded at length, “the portrait of a blinking idiot.” Anger gave way to grief. “Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?” he asked of the lady who most unkindly smiled. “Is that my prize?”
“To offend and judge are distinct offices,” said Portia, a little sorry for the downcast Prince, “and of opposed natures.”
He sighed heavily; but before he took his departure, he mustered up his spirits sufficiently to admit, “With one fool’s head I came to woo, but I go away with two.”
When the Prince and all his servants had departed, there came news that yet another suitor was approaching. His messenger, a young Venetian was already at the gate. Portia and Nerissa looked at one another. Who could this messenger’s master be?
“Bassanio,” prayed Nerissa, “Lord Love, if thy will it be!”
The water ran choppily by the Rialto, as an invisible wind, like strong rumour, sent it scurrying. Two good friends of Antonio talked solemnly, amid the bustle and business of brokers and merchants. Again they’d heard tales that one of Antonio’s ships had been wrecked and all its cargo lost. They shook their heads sadly over their friend’s ill-luck, and prayed there would be no more of it.
“How now Shylock!” exclaimed one, as the Jew drew near, “what news among the merchants?”
Shylock, his eyes all red from weeping, glared at the Christian gentlemen, in whose contemptuous smiles he read, all too easily, mockery for his loss. His daughter was gone, and they laughed at him. Such a daughter, they jeered, was too good for such a father to keep. “But tell us,” they asked, brushing aside the Jew’s misfortunes, “do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?”
Another knife in his heart, for Antonio was in distress and near to being bankrupt. More ducats thrown to the dogs! “Let him look to his bond,” snarled Shylock, “let him look to his bond!”
“Why,” cried one of the gentlemen, in some surprise, “I am sure if he forfeit thou wilt not take his flesh—what’s that good for?”
“To bait fish withal,” screamed Shylock, beside himself with grief and rage, “if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.”
The two gentlemen stepped back; passers-by paused; velvet lords and ladies turned, stared, exchanged glances of scorn (but discreetly for none wanted to be noticed and publicly pounced upon by the inflamed Jew), as the black-gowned Shylock raved on: “He hath disgraced me and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what’s his reason? I am a Jew.” Here, the moneylender glared about him with such ferocious distress and such ancient anguish, that the brightly hovering world of Venice seemed to shrink and tremble, like butterflies’ wings at the cooling of summer. Shylock went on, his voice as raw as the shrieking of sea birds: “Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt by the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? revenge! If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.”
Shylock stopped, panting from his exertions. To the relief of Antonio’s friends, a messenger came, bidding them come to the merchant’s house. The lookers-on shrugged their shoulders and strolled away. Shylock stood alone, until another of his tribe, one Tubal, joined him.
“What news from Genoa?” demanded Shylock. “Hast thou found my daughter?”
The news was bad. Tubal had heard of her but not seen her. Shylock was plunged into the blackest misery. All his riches gone. Would that his daughter was dead! “The curse never fell upon our nation till now,” he groaned, “I never felt it till now . . .”
But, on the other hand, there was news in Genoa that one of Antonio’s ships had been cast away. Ah! That was better! Yet then again, Tubal had heard, in talkative Genoa, that Shylock’s daughter had spent, at one sitting, four score ducats.
“Thou stick’st a dagger in me,” moaned Shylock.
But, said Tubal, Antonio’s creditors were gathering, and the Jew was pacified—until he heard that one of them had had a ring off Jessica for a monkey.
“Out upon her!” wept Shylock, wringing his hands and tearing at the shiny ringlets of his hair, “it was my turquoise, I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys!”
But, thank God, Antonio was ruined, and Shylock sent Tubal for an officer to enforce his terrible claim upon the proud merchant who had spurned him.
In Belmont, in smiling Belmont, the new suitor had appeared; and to Portia’s joy and fear he was that very Bassanio she remembered from long ago: to her joy because her heart danced to see him, and to her fear because, if he failed in his choice of casket, she would never see him more.
In vain she begged him put off the fateful choice, and take pleasure in her house and gardens, and the soft air of Belmont, which was always filled with music; but Bassanio, having come thus far, and at such a cost, could not endure to delay. So now he stood before the caskets, with Gratiano (strangely quiet Gratiano), by his side; and the fair lady of Belmont, with all her maids like pale daisies bending towards her warmth and light, watched him intently. Softly, though in a voice that trembled, Portia bade a page boy, who sat cross-legged and fondled a lute almost as large as himself, to sing. The child frowned down at his instrument, and gravely began: “Tell me where is Fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head?”
Some say it was the song that guided Bassanio in his choice, for Portia already loved him well enough to give his fortune a proper turn; but she was ever honourable in her dealings, and well Bassanio knew it. No! If he was guided at all, it was not by rhyme, but by the bright sudden looks of Portia’s sea-blue eyes, which warned him that true beauty dwells within. It was his own love and hers that taught him the wisdom to know where his best hope lay: not in gold, not in silver, but in quiet, unassuming lead. “And here choose I,” he breathed. “Joy be the consequence!”
And so it was. Within the leaden casket was fair Portia’s portrait. Bassanio had won the lady of his heart. The joy of the chosen was no less than the joy of the chooser; they were a pair fairly matched. To solemnize their promised marriage, Portia gave Bassanio a ring, and made him swear that he would never, so long as he loved her, part with it. (Such a ring Leah had given to Shylock, and Jessica had stolen it away.) Willingly Bassanio promised. And then Gratiano spoke up: he too had found a bride, whose promise had depended on the choice of casket. She was Portia’s maid, Nerissa, whose loveliness was only exceeded by her mistress’s as the lily by the rose. It would seem that, by holding his tongue in accordance with his promise, Gratiano had made a better conquest by silence than by talk.
Then, in the midst of this high summer of happiness, a cloud came over the sun. There arrived from Venice Lorenzo and Jessica, and a friend of Antonio’s. They brought a letter from the merchant to his young friend.
“Sweet Bassanio,” wrote the merchant, in the extremity of his distress, “my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and, since in paying it, it is impossible I should all live, debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death; notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.”
Belmont was fallen into dullness. The house was quiet and the gardens emptied. Lutes and guitars were coffined in their cases, for the two new brides had been widowed by the need of a friend. Their husbands, Bassanio and Gratiano, had hastened to Venice to try to save the good Antonio. But there was little hope. Even though Portia had urged Bassanio to offer Shylock many times the value of the bond, it was feared he would not take it. His daughter Jessica declared that she had heard her father swear that there was no money that could buy back the bond. His love of ducats had been quite swallowed up in his desire for revenge. He would have his pound of flesh. He knew full well that not even the Duke could deny him this; for the bond had been drawn up in accordance with the law of Venice, and to skirt that law would be to undermine it, and so undermine the chief strength of the state.
Portia thought deeply about these matters, and wondered how she might help her husband’s friend with her wit if her wealth proved to be of no avail. It was a matter of law, and, though no lawyer herself, she had a cousin in Padua, by name of Doctor Bellario, who was most learned in the science. To Bellario, then, she sent her servant with a letter requiring certain notes and articles of clothing to be dispatched to the Venice ferry, where she and her maid would receive them. Then, confiding to Lorenzo and Jessica the charge of her house, she gave out that she and Nerissa were retiring to a monastery while their husbands were away. This done, she and Nerissa left Belmont on their strange adventure.
“Come on, Nerissa,” she murmured, with brightly gleaming eyes, “I have work in hand that you yet know not of; we’ll see our husbands before they think of us!”
The waters of Venice ran dark and deep beside the Hall of Justice, reflecting stone walls and no more than a knife of the sky. Within, among gilded pillars and richly tapestried walls, from which long-dead lawgivers gazed faintly down, there was much murmuring as the Duke and all the dignitaries of the State entered to hear the cause and give judgement. They sat, with a sigh of crimson velvets and a quiet chiming of their chains of gold. Antonio was summoned and duly fetched. Poor man! his face was already as pale as death. He saw Bassanio among the onlookers, and seemed to gain a little courage from the presence of his young friend.
“Go one and call the Jew into the court,” commanded the Duke, Shylock was called; and Shylock came. He stood before the court, rubbing and rubbing his thin white hands, as the Duke urged him to be merciful and not demand the terrible payment of the bond. Shylock shook his head, and his oiled locks gleamed redly in the crowding candlelight, as if his bloody thoughts had stained them. He would have his bond. He stared defiantly at the assembled lords in all their pride. “If you deny it,” he warned, “let the danger light upon your charter and your city’s freedom!”
Impulsively Bassanio stepped forward and pleaded with Shylock. He answered him coldly, curtly, and scarce deigning to look at him. Antonio interposed and begged Bassanio not waste his breath. “Make no more offers,” he pleaded, weary with distress, “let me have judgement and the Jew his will.”
“For thy three thousand ducats here is six!” cried Bassanio, throwing down a heavy purse on to the table of judgement. Again Shylock shook his head. He would have nothing but his bond.
“How shalt thou hope for mercy rend’ring none?” wondered the Duke, shocked beyond measure by the force of the Jew’s hatred.
“What judgement shall I dread doing no wrong?” demanded Shylock angry with this Christian court that sought to escape its own laws. “If you deny me,” he cried, “fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice: I stand for judgement; answer, shall I have it?”
The Duke and his lords gravely conferred. There was no doubt that the Jew had law upon his side. If only the learned Doctor Bellario, for whom the Duke had sent, would come and unperplex the court! Then, even as that doctor’s name was spoken, it was learned that he had sent a messenger with letters . . .
“Bring us the letters!” exclaimed the Duke, “call the messenger!”
The messenger was called, and the messenger came: a most curious small clerk, in clerk’s gown, and clerk’s hat, with clerk’s wig and clerk’s spectacles, so that nothing showed but what was proper to a clerk, who did not look like Nerissa at all. In a voice that struggled to keep low, but kept rising, like a swimmer for air, the clerk presented the Duke with Doctor Bellario’s greetings, and his letters. As the Duke read the letters, the court buzzed with expectation; then sharply drew in its breath as it was seen that Shylock, merciless Shylock, had taken out his knife and was steadily sharpening it against the sole of his shoe.
Doctor Bellario’s letters told that he was sick and unable to attend; but that, in his place, he had sent a young lawyer in whom he had the greatest faith. The Duke looked up, and there before him stood the young lawyer: a most curious small young lawyer, in lawyer’s gown and lawyer’s hat, with lawyer’s wig and lawyer’s thick spectacles so that nothing showed but what was proper to a lawyer, who did not look like fair Portia at all. The Duke looked doubtfully at the little advocate, whose chin, nestling in lawyer’s bands, was as beardless as silk. Was the young lawyer acquainted with the cause before the court? The young lawyer was; and the young lawyer’s voice was not unlike the clerk’s, being low in parts. The Duke shrugged his shoulders and, with a wave of his many-ringed hand, indicated that the trial between the Jew and the merchant of Venice should proceed.
“Of a strange nature is the suit you follow,” said the lawyer to
the Jew, “yet in such rule that the Venetian law cannot impugn you as you do proceed . . .” Shylock’s beard revealed, rather than hid, the grimness of his smile. “Do you confess the bond?” asked the lawyer of the merchant. Helplessly the merchant confessed it. “Then must the Jew be merciful,” decided the lawyer.
“On what compulsion must I?” demanded Shylock. “Tell me that!” The court murmured. What compulsion could this small lawyer bring upon him to make him merciful? The lawyer faced Shylock; took a pace towards him; held out hands in a gesture of pleading—hands that were whiter and gentler than lawyer’s hands ever were; and spoke to him:
“The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed, it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes, ’tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown . . .” Thus the lawyer pleaded with Shylock to temper justice with mercy. But Shylock would have nothing of it. He demanded his pound of the merchant’s flesh.
“Is he not able to discharge the money?” inquired the lawyer of the court.
“Yes, here I tender it for him in the court!” cried Bassanio, and offered twice the sum, or even ten times (upon which the small lawyer looked sharply at the young man who was so prodigal with ducats), to redeem the bond. “If that will not suffice,” went on Bassanio, “it must appear that malice bears down truth. Wrest once the law to your authority; to do a great right, do a little wrong, and curb this cruel devil of his will.”
“It must not be,” said the lawyer, “there is no power in Venice can alter a decree established: ’twill be recorded for a precedent . . .”
“A Daniel come to judgement: yea, a Daniel!” cried Shylock, capering with delight to find the justice of his cause upheld. “O wise young judge how I do honour thee!”
Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Page 9