Chapter IV: Part 4

Portia, the lady whom Bassanio hoped to win for his wife, had inherited great wealth, but there was one strange clause in her father’s will. She was not free to choose her own husband. Her father had ordained that there should be three caskets--one of gold, one of silver, one of lead--and Portia’s portrait was to be placed in one of these caskets. Every suitor had to make his choice, and whoever was fortunate enough to select the one containing the portrait was to be rewarded with the lady’s hand.

The report of Portia’s wealth and wondrous beauty spread abroad, and many adventurers came in search of her. Portia liked none of them, and felt much aggrieved to be so curbed by her dead father’s will. Her waiting-maid Nerissa tried to console her by reminding her how wise and good her father had always been. Holy men, she said, had often at their deaths good inspirations, and it would very likely come to pass that the casket would never be rightly chosen except by someone who rightly loved.

Portia listened, but she was scarcely convinced. Among her suitors there was not one for whom she felt anything but ridicule or contempt. She was therefore delighted when Nerissa went on to tell her that the gentlemen were departing to their own homes, and intended to trouble her no further, unless she could be won by some other means than those imposed by her father.

“I am glad the parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I doat on his very absence!” said Portia gaily. “Heaven grant them a fair departure!”

“Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came here in company of the Marquis of Monferrat?” asked Nerissa.

“Yes, yes, it was Bassanio,” answered Portia quickly; then, more slowly, as if she would not have Nerissa notice her eagerness, “I _think_ he was so called.”

“True, madam. He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.”

“I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of your praise,” said Portia.

At that moment a serving-man entered to say that four stranger lords desired to take their leave of the lady Portia, and that a forerunner had come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brought word that his master would be there that night.

“Come, Nerissa,” said Portia, with a little gesture of half-comic despair. “While we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.”

* * * * *

The caskets were duly set out in order, and the Prince of Morocco was to make his choice. The first, of gold, bore this inscription:

=“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.”=

The second, of silver, carried this promise:

=“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”=

The third, dull lead, had this blunt warning:

=“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”=

Long and carefully the Prince of Morocco pondered, seeking to discover the hidden meaning that lay in each mysterious inscription. But at last his decision was made.

“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.”

“Why, that’s the lady,” reflected the Prince. “All the world desires her; they come from the four corners of the earth to behold fair Portia. One of these three caskets contains her picture. Is it likely that lead contains her? That is too base a thought. Or shall I think she is immured in silver, when gold is ten times more valuable? Give me the key. I choose here.”

“There, take it, Prince,” said Portia, “and if my picture is there, then I am yours.”

The Prince of Morocco unlocked the golden casket. And what did he behold?... Not the fair image of the lovely Portia, but a grinning skull. In the empty eye there was a written scroll, and this is what it said:

“All that glisters is not gold;
Often you have heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrolled.
Fare you well; your suit is cold.”

“Cold indeed; and labour lost: then farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!” sighed the Prince; and there was nothing left for him to do but to take a dignified departure.

The next suitor to put in an appearance was the Prince of Arragon, but he was no more fortunate than the Prince of Morocco. His choice fell on the silver casket, but for all his reward he found the portrait of a blinking idiot. Portia gladly saw him depart, and at the same moment arrived a messenger to announce the coming of a young Venetian lord. Some instinct made Portia guess who was approaching, and she was not mistaken; it was indeed the lord Bassanio.

Very different were the feelings with which Portia watched this suitor make his choice from those she had experienced on former occasions. She had even begged Bassanio to pause for a day or two, for if he chose wrongly she would lose his company. But Bassanio replied that he must choose at once, for as matters were now he lived upon the rack. His chief dread was that Portia might not care for him, but the lady soon comforted him on that point. Even if he lost the prize, he would have the consolation of knowing that he was really loved.

Portia bade Nerissa and the rest stand all aloof, and ordered sweet music to sound while Bassanio made his choice.

Like the Prince of Morocco and the Prince of Arragon, Bassanio stood long in reflection before the fated caskets. But, unlike these Princes, he made a happier choice. The gold and the silver he rejected, for he knew how often appearances were deceitful; but the humble lead, which rather threatened than promised anything, attracted his fancy.

“Thou meagre lead, thy paleness moves me more than eloquence,” he said. “Here I choose; joy be the consequence!”

Bassanio unlocked the leaden casket, and there he found the portrait of the lady Portia, with her golden hair and her eyes smiling back at him in greeting.

With the picture was a scroll, on which was written:

“You that choose not by the view,
Chance as fair and choose as true!
Since this fortune falls to you,
Be content and seek no new.
If you be well pleased with this,
And hold your fortune for your bliss,
Turn you where your lady is
And claim her with a loving kiss.”

“A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave I come by note to give and to receive,” said Bassanio, following the advice of the scroll. He was almost dazed at his own good fortune, and scarcely dared to believe it could be true until it was confirmed and ratified by the lady herself. But Portia left him no doubt on that point, and her love and joy overflowed in a generous surrender of herself and all her possessions to her new-found “lord, her governor, her king.”

“This house, these servants, and myself are yours, my lord,” she ended. “I give them with this ring, which when you part from, lose, or give away, let it foretell the ruin of your love.”

Bassanio declared he had no words in which to answer; there was nothing but a wild sense of joy. And as for the ring, he would never part with it as long as he lived.

The happiness resulting from Bassanio’s choice of the right casket did not end with themselves, for now another couple stepped forward, and craved permission to be married at the same time as the lord and the lady. One of Bassanio’s companions had come with him to Belmont, a gay, feather-brained young fellow called Gratiano. This lively chatterer had fixed his affections on Nerissa, the waiting-woman, and their fate, too, hung on the caskets, for Nerissa promised that if Bassanio succeeded in winning her mistress, _she_ would consent to marry Gratiano. Nerissa, further, in imitation of Portia, gave her own wooer a ring; and Gratiano, like Bassanio, swore that he would never part with it.

“Revenge!”

Meanwhile, in Venice, things were not going well, either for Shylock or for Antonio. The three months for which Antonio had borrowed the money had almost expired, when a dreadful blow fell on the Jew. Jessica, his only child, fled with a Christian. Not only this, but she carried off with her rich plunder of money and jewels, stolen from her father’s hoards. Shylock was almost out of his mind with rage and grief, and from his frenzied ravings it was difficult to say which loss he felt the most--that of his ducats or his daughter. Jessica, in her heedless extravagance, squandered money right and left, and even a precious turquoise ring which her mother had given to Shylock before their marriage was not held sacred--Jessica bartered it at Genoa to a sailor in exchange for a monkey!

The news of his daughter’s reckless prodigality cut Shylock to the heart, but he had one source of consolation to which he turned with savage glee. Antonio, the merchant, had met with heavy losses, and one ship after another had been wrecked at sea. On the Rialto it was reported that Antonio must certainly be bankrupt.

“Let him look to his bond!” cried Shylock. “He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond! He was wont to lend money for Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond!”

“Why,” said one of Antonio’s friends, “I am sure if he forfeit you will not take his flesh. What’s that good for?”

“To bait fish withal,” said Shylock, with a snarl like a tiger. “If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He has 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 my enemies: and what’s his reason? I am a Jew!... Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with 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 we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you also in that. 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.”

And Shylock’s resolution was like rock--nothing could shake it. When the bond fell due, and Antonio failed to meet it, Shylock had him arrested, and insisted on the case being brought to trial before the Duke of Venice. No arguments could move him, no appeals for mercy--not even the offer of the money, if Antonio could have got it.

“I’ll have no speaking; I will have my bond,” was his only answer.

The Venetian gentleman with whom Jessica had fled to get married--Lorenzo--was a friend of Antonio and Bassanio. The young husband and wife in their flight happened to come across another friend of theirs who was conveying the news of Antonio’s disaster to Bassanio, and at his request Lorenzo and Jessica went with him to Belmont. They reached the house at the very moment when everyone was in the full tide of joy after the successful choosing of the casket. Portia made them welcome, and Salerio handed a letter to Bassanio. The latter turned so pale on reading it that Portia guessed something terrible must have happened. She claimed her right as promised wife to share in all that concerned Bassanio, and he told her without hesitation how matters stood.

“Is it your dear friend who is thus in trouble?” asked Portia, when she had heard the account of Antonio’s troubles, and how it was for Bassanio’s sake he had run such a risk.

“The dearest friend to me, the kindest man!” answered Bassanio, “the most unwearied in doing courtesies, and the most unsullied in honour.”

“What sum does he owe the Jew?”

“For me, three thousand ducats.”

“What! no more? Pay him six thousand and cancel the bond. Double six thousand, and then treble that, before such a friend shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault!” exclaimed Portia. “First go with me to church and call me wife, then hasten to Venice, to your friend. You shall have gold to pay the debt twenty times over.... But let me hear the letter of your friend.”

“Sweet Bassanio,” ran the letter, “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 live, all debts are cleared between you and me 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.”

“O love, despatch all business and begone!” cried Portia.

The two marriages were hastily solemnised, and then Bassanio and Gratiano started at once for Venice.

When they were gone, Portia announced to Lorenzo and Jessica that during her husband’s absence she intended to retire into seclusion, and she committed the management of her house and estate into their hands. Then she gave some hurried directions to a serving-man--Balthasar; he was to carry a letter with all speed to Padua, to a learned cousin of Portia’s--Doctor Bellario.

“Look what notes and garments he gives you,” she said, “and bring them with all imaginable speed to Venice, to the public ferry. Waste no time in words, but get you gone. I shall be there before you.... Come, Nerissa,” she continued, “I have work in hand that you do not yet know of; we shall see our husbands before they think of us!”

“Shall they see us?” asked Nerissa.

“They shall, Nerissa, but in such a guise they will not know us. I’ll wager you anything, when we are both dressed like young men, I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, and wear my dagger with a braver grace! But come, I’ll tell you my whole device when we are in my coach, which waits for us at the park gates. Hasten, for we must measure twenty miles to-day.”

A Pound of Flesh

In the Court of Justice at Venice a great trial was to take place. Shylock the Jew claimed the forfeit of his bond. Antonio had signed the agreement that, if he failed to repay the loan of three thousand ducats by a certain date, the penalty was to be a pound of his own flesh, cut off from whatever part of his body the Jew pleased.

Antonio had failed to repay the money, and Shylock insisted on the terms of the bond being carried out to the very letter.

Terrible as this alternative was, there was no evading it. The Duke of Venice himself had to admit that, if Shylock chose to exact the penalty, there was no law of Venice that could prevent him. In this extremity the Duke sent for the learned doctor, Bellario, at Padua, to come and help them with his counsel, but when the Court opened Bellario had not yet arrived.

The Duke entered and took his seat. He looked round at the assembled people.

“What! is Antonio here?”

“Ready, so please your grace,” came back the quiet answer, and Antonio stepped forward from the place where he stood surrounded by a little band of friends. Bassanio was there, and Gratiano, and many others, who had come to show their sympathy with the merchant, though they could not help him in his dire extremity.

The Duke spoke a few words to Antonio, saying how sorry he was to find him in the power of such a terrible adversary, to which Antonio replied, with quiet dignity, that since Shylock was relentless, and that no lawful means could save him, he was prepared to suffer patiently.

Then Shylock was called into court, and the Duke began the trial by making an appeal to him for mercy. All the world, he said, thought that Shylock only intended to carry his apparent malice up to the hour of execution, and that then, at the last moment, he would show his mercy and remorse, and not only forego the forfeiture, but also forgive a portion of the loan, because of the enormous losses which had lately fallen on Antonio.

“We all expect a gentle answer, Jew,” concluded the Duke.

Grim, stony, immovable, Shylock had listened to the Duke’s appeal. The time for passionate frenzy was past; his venomed rage had settled down into a cold, calm hatred. One determination possessed him, and there was no power in the tongue of man to alter it--he would have his bond. He answered the Duke quietly, but with absolute decision. He was offered twice the amount of his loan.

“If every ducat in six thousand ducats were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them; I would have my bond,” was his answer to this offer.

The Duke asked him how he could hope for mercy, since he rendered none.

“What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?” was Shylock’s retort. “The pound of flesh which I demand of the merchant is dearly bought; it’s mine, and I will have it. I stand here for justice. Answer: shall I have it?”

As far as the decrees of Venice were concerned, Shylock had the law on his side, and the Duke dared not go against them. He had power, however, to defer the trial, and he was thinking of doing this, when he was told that a messenger had arrived from Padua, with letters from Bellario. The Duke bade that the messenger should be called into court, and Nerissa entered, dressed like a lawyer’s clerk.

The letter from Bellario stated that he was too ill to come himself, but that he had sent in his place a very wise and learned young doctor, whom he had thoroughly instructed in the case, and whose wonderful skill and judgment could be thoroughly relied on. The letter ended by saying that the Duke must not mistrust the new-comer because of his lack of years, for Bellario “never knew so young a body with so old a head.”

It was well Bellario had given this warning, for surely no younger-looking Doctor of Laws had ever entered the Court of Justice. Portia’s locks of sunny gold were hidden away beneath the doctor’s cap, but nothing could conceal the youth and beauty of her face. No token of hesitation or inexperience, however, was visible in her handling of the case. She plunged at once into the heart of the matter.

Her first step was to appeal to Shylock on the score of mercy, and in words of the most moving eloquence she tried to soften the Jew’s hard heart, and to show him that higher even than the _Justice_ which he claimed was the quality of _Mercy_. But Shylock stood there rigid; he might have been cut in granite for any effect that Portia’s words had on him.

“I crave the law, the penalty and forfeit of my bond,” came the usual stubborn response.

Then Portia asked if Antonio had not money to discharge the debt. Yes, replied Bassanio, it was there ready in the court--yea, twice the sum. If that would not suffice, he would bind himself to pay it ten times over. If this did not satisfy the Jew, it was quite evident that he was acting through sheer malice; and Bassanio besought the learned young doctor to wrest the law just a little on this occasion, and, in order to do a great right, do a little wrong.

“It must not be,” replied Portia. Nothing could alter an established decree, for many an error by the same example might creep into the State. The law must be kept; the bond must be fulfilled to the very letter.

“A Daniel come to judgment!” cried the triumphant Shylock. “O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!”

The friends of Antonio stood silent in dismay. Even Gratiano, who had been loud in denunciation of the Jew’s savage cruelty, had no words now.

The bond was forfeit, Portia continued, and the Jew had the right to exact the penalty if he chose. But her winning voice still pleaded:

“Be merciful! Take thrice thy money, bid me tear the bond.”

“When it is paid according to the tenor,” was the grim reply.

Antonio saw that all hope was over; there was no use in prolonging the discussion.

“Most heartily I do beseech the court to give the judgment,” he said earnestly.

But even when acknowledging that the sentence must be carried out, Portia fought every inch of the way to secure some small concession for the unhappy merchant. Shylock had brought a knife into the court to cut the pound of flesh, and scales to weigh it, but he had provided no surgeon to dress the wound afterwards. Portia begged that he would provide one, if only out of charity. Was it so nominated in the bond? No. Therefore Shylock declined. Not the smallest point would he concede. The bond should be kept to the very letter.

Ah, if Shylock had only known what a pitfall he was digging for himself by insisting on this point!

In a clear, firm voice Portia began to pronounce sentence. A pound of the merchant’s flesh was Shylock’s; the court awarded it, and the law gave it. The flesh was to be cut off from his breast--(“nearest his heart,” as Shylock had savagely stipulated)--the law allowed it, and the court awarded it.

“Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!” cried Shylock; and, rattling his scales, he darted forward, knife in hand, upon the merchant.

But Portia’s voice rang through the court,--“Tarry a little: there is something else!”

Shylock stood still, aghast; Antonio’s friends looked up with sudden hope. It was Portia’s turn now to keep to the letter of the law. The bond gave no mention of the word “blood”; the words expressly were “a pound of flesh.” Let Shylock, then, take his bond, his pound of flesh; but if in the cutting it he shed one drop of Christian blood, his lands and goods were, by the laws of Venice, confiscate to the State of Venice.

“Is that the law?” gasped Shylock; and Portia answered that he should see the act for himself. As he had urged “justice,” let him be assured he should have justice, more than he desired.

“O learned judge!” cried Gratiano, mocking Shylock’s former words of praise. “Mark, Jew, a _learned_ judge!”

“Pay the bond thrice and let the Christian go,” said Shylock.

“Here is the money,” said Bassanio eagerly; but Portia held up her hand.

“Soft! The Jew shall have all justice. Soft, no haste! He shall have nothing but the penalty.”

Shylock was to cut off his pound of flesh, but he was to shed no blood. Nor was he to cut more or less than just one pound. If he cut more or less than a just pound--“If the scale turns even by the weight of a hair, thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate,” pronounced Portia.

“Give me my principal, and let me go,” said Shylock.

“I have it ready for thee; here it is,” said Bassanio, again holding out the bags of gold; and again Portia stayed him.

“He has refused it in the open court; he shall have merely justice and his bond.”

“Shall I not have barely my principal?” demanded the cowed Shylock.

“Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, to be so taken at thy peril, Jew.”

“Why, then, the devil give him good of it! I’ll stay no further question,” cried Shylock, turning to leave the Court in a fury of baffled rage and spite.

But he was not to get off so easily. The law had still another hold on him. He, being an alien, had offended against the laws of Venice by seeking the life of a citizen. The penalty for this was that half his goods went to the citizen, the other half to the coffers of the State, and the offender’s life lay at the mercy of the Duke.

Stunned and crushed by this sudden calamitous turn of affairs, Shylock listened. All through the trial he had claimed nothing but “justice”; he had insisted that the very letter of the law should be fulfilled. The measure he had meted out to Antonio was now to be measured out for himself. But the Duke of Venice was merciful enough to pardon Shylock’s life before he asked it. As for his wealth, half of it would go to Antonio, the other half to the State, but humbleness might remit the latter into a fine.

“Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that,” said Shylock, half dazed. “You take my house when you take the prop that sustains it; you take my life when you take the means whereby I live.”

Antonio said he would resign half the money due to him, provided Shylock would let him keep the other half in use, to render it at Shylock’s death to the husband of his daughter Jessica. Further, for this favour Shylock was to do two things: he was to give up his Jewish religion, and he was to make a will, leaving all his possessions to Lorenzo and his daughter.

“He shall do this,” said the Duke, “or else I will recant the pardon which I lately granted.”

“Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say?” asked Portia.

And what was left for Shylock to answer? Baffled of his revenge, stripped of his wealth, forced to disown his faith, his very life forfeited--a hated, despised, miserable old man--he stood alone amidst the hostile throng. Not one face looked at him kindly, not one voice was raised in his behalf. Twice he strove to speak, and twice he failed. Then, in a hoarse whisper through the parched lips, came the faltering words:

“I--am--content.”

The Two Rings

Shylock, crushed and beaten, had left the court, followed by the yells and hooting of the crowds collected to hear the result of the trial, and Antonio and his friends hastened to express their warmest gratitude to the young Doctor of Laws who had so skilfully conducted the case. They begged him to accept a handsome fee, but he refused to take any money payment for his services. Bassanio insisted that he must certainly accept some remembrance, not as a fee, but as a tribute of their gratitude.

Thus urged, the young doctor yielded. He looked at Antonio.

“Give me your gloves; I’ll wear them for your sake.” Then, to Bassanio: “And for your love I’ll take this ring from you.”

But Bassanio drew back. He began to make excuses; the ring was a trifle, he would not shame himself by offering it; it had been given to him by his wife, etc. The more reluctant he showed himself, the more the young doctor insisted. Finally he went off apparently in deep offence. Then Antonio urged Bassanio to give him what he asked, because of the services he had done, and Gratiano was sent after him to present the ring to him.

* * * * *

Lorenzo and Jessica, meanwhile, had been staying at Belmont, but they were very glad to welcome back the lady of the house. It was a lovely moonlight night when Portia and Nerissa came home. Sweet music was sounding, and all was peace and beauty. Their return was speedily followed by the arrival of Bassanio, Antonio, and Gratiano. All was rejoicing, but in the midst of the general gladness sounds of discord were heard. Gratiano and his wife were having a hot dispute.

“A quarrel already? What’s the matter?” asked Portia.

“It’s about a paltry ring that Nerissa gave me, with a motto for all the world like cutlers’ poetry upon a knife, ‘Love me and leave me not,’” said Gratiano.

“Why do you talk of the motto or the value?” cried Nerissa. “You swore to me when I gave it you that you would wear it till the hour of death, and that it should lie with you in your grave. Even if not for my sake, yet because of your oath, you ought to have held it in respect, and kept it. Gave it to a judge’s clerk! No, indeed, the clerk that had it will never wear hair on his face!”

“Yes, he will, if he lives to be a man.”

“Ay, if a woman lives to be a man!” said Nerissa scornfully.

“Now, by this hand. I gave it to a youth,” protested the exasperated Gratiano; “a kind of boy--a little scrubby boy, no higher than yourself, the judge’s clerk, a prating boy that begged it as a fee. I could not find it in my heart to deny him.”

“You were to blame, Gratiano--I must be plain with you--to part so lightly with your wife’s first gift,” said Portia gravely. “I gave _my_ love a ring, and made him swear never to part with it,” she added, looking tenderly at Bassanio. “Here he stands. I dare be sworn he would not give it from his finger for all the wealth contained in the world. Now, in faith, Gratiano, you have given your wife unkind cause for grief. If it were me, I should be mad about it.”

How pleasant for Bassanio to hear this!

“I were best to cut my left hand off, and swear I lost the ring defending it,” he thought ruefully.

“My lord Bassanio gave his ring to the judge, who indeed well deserved it,” said Gratiano, in self-excuse. “And then the boy, his clerk, who took some pains in writing, he begged mine. And neither man nor master would take anything else but the two rings.”

“What ring did you give, my lord?” asked Portia. “Not, I hope, the one you received from me.”

“If I could add a lie to the fault, I would deny it,” said Bassanio. “But, you see, my finger has not the ring upon it; it is gone.”

Portia, on hearing this, pretended to get very angry and jealous, and no excuses that Bassanio made could appease her.

“Sweet Portia,” he said, “if you knew to whom I gave the ring, if you knew for whom I gave the ring, and would understand for what I gave the ring, and how unwillingly I left the ring, when nothing would be accepted but the ring, you would abate the strength of your displeasure.”

“If you had known the virtue of the ring,” retorted Portia, “or half her worthiness that gave the ring, or your own honour to retain the ring, you would not then have parted with the ring.”

Portia thoroughly enjoyed the fun of teasing her husband, and she and Nerissa made the poor men quite unhappy before the secret was revealed. Finally Antonio, distressed at the discord which he imagined he had brought between husband and wife, interceded for Bassanio, and Portia allowed herself to be soothed.

“Since you will be surety for him,” she said to Antonio, “give him this ring, and bid him keep it better than the other.”

“By heaven it is the same I gave the doctor!” cried Bassanio.

So all ended happily. The mystery was explained, and Bassanio and Gratiano were duly forgiven. To add to the general pleasure, news reached Portia that three of Antonio’s argosies had come safely to harbour, so, after all, he was no longer a bankrupt, but once again a rich and prosperous merchant of Venice.

As You Like It

Oliver and Orlando

Deep in the Forest of Arden lived a merry company. The Duke of that country, banished by his usurping brother Frederick, had taken refuge among the green woods, and there, far from the pomp and envious clamour of Court, he lived happily with a few faithful followers. Custom had made this new life sweeter than the old one of showy state. Here were no fawning courtiers, no slander and intrigue; the only hardships were those of the changing seasons. Even when the keen winds of winter made the Duke shrink with cold, he would smile and say: “This is no flattery; these are counsellors that make me feel really what I am;” and the biting blast seemed to him less cruel than the falsehood and ingratitude of men.

Not far from the forest was the house that had formerly belonged to a good gentleman--Sir Rowland de Boys. Dying, Sir Rowland had left all his possessions to his eldest son, Oliver, excepting one thousand crowns, which was to go to the youngest son, Orlando. Sir Rowland, however, had charged Oliver to bring up his two brothers carefully. Oliver had sent the second son, Jaques, to school, where the boy did well; but his youngest brother, Orlando, he kept at home, leaving him utterly neglected and without any sort of training. Not only did Oliver do nothing at all for his brother, but he even tried to take away what advantages Orlando possessed by nature. He made him feed with the servants, debarred him his place as brother, and in every way possible seemed to aim at unfitting him for his position as a gentleman.

Orlando was indignant at such treatment, and at last he rebelled openly, declaring he would endure such servitude no longer. There was an angry dispute between the young men, in which Oliver, as usual, tried to bully his brother into submission. But Orlando’s spirit was up. Stung to fury by Oliver’s insults, he seized hold of him, and compelled him to listen to what he had to say. A faithful old servitor of their father’s interposed, and tried to make peace, but Orlando was determined not to yield.

“You _shall_ hear me,” he said, as Oliver struggled to free himself. “My father charged you in his will to give me a good education. You have trained me like a peasant, hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it. Therefore allow me such exercises as becomes a gentleman, or give me the poor portion my father left me in his will, and with that I will go seek my fortune.”

“And what will you do with it? Beg, when that is spent?” sneered Oliver. “Well, sir, get you in; I will not be troubled with you much longer. You shall have part of what you wish. I pray you, leave me.” And then, turning to the old servant Adam, he added savagely, “Get you with him, you old dog!”

“Is ‘old dog’ my reward?” said Adam sadly. “Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoken such a word.”

But Oliver had a plan for getting rid of this younger brother, and that without expending a thousand crowns. Charles, the wrestler of the usurping Duke, was to show his skill the following day at Court, and Oliver knew it was Orlando’s intention to try a match with this famous athlete. This report had also privately reached the ears of the wrestler. Charles was a most powerful opponent, deadly in skill and strength. Being a friend of Oliver’s, and not wishing to harm the young Orlando, he came to Oliver’s house to warn him to dissuade his brother from making the attempt, or at least to let him know, in the event of any injury happening to Orlando, that it would be entirely of the boy’s own seeking, and altogether against Charles’s will.

Oliver thanked Charles for his kind thought, and said he had himself tried by every means to dissuade Orlando, but that he was resolute.

“I tell you, Charles, he is the stubbornest young fellow in France,” Oliver said maliciously, “full of ambition, envious of every man’s good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me, his own brother. Therefore use your discretion. I had as lief you broke his neck as his finger. And you had better be on your guard, for if you do him any slight disgrace, or if he fails to win glory for himself, he will practise against you by poison, entrap you by some treacherous device, and never leave you till he has taken your life by some indirect means or other. For I assure you--and I speak it almost with tears--there is no one living at this day so young and so villainous.”

Charles was naturally shocked to hear such a bad account of Orlando.

“I am heartily glad I came to you,” he said. “If he comes to-morrow I’ll give him his payment;” and away he went, vowing to punish Orlando.

“Now I’ll stir up the youngster,” thought Oliver. “I hope I shall soon see the end of him, for, though I don’t know why, I have an absolute hatred of the boy. Yet he is gentle; never schooled, and yet learned; full of noble device; enchantingly beloved by everyone--indeed, so much in the hearts of all, especially of my own people, that I am altogether thrown in the shade. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler will put all right. Nothing remains but to make the boy more eager for the wrestling, and that I’ll go and do at once.”

Rosalind and Celia

When the rightful Duke was sent into banishment, Frederick, the usurping Duke, allowed his daughter Rosalind to stay on at Court, to be a companion to his own young daughter Celia. The cousins had been brought up together from their cradles, and were so devoted to each other that if Rosalind had been sent into banishment Celia would either have followed her or died of grief at the separation. Celia strove by all the means in her power to cheer her cousin’s sorrow for the loss of her father, and assured her that when Duke Frederick died she would never consent to be his heir, but would immediately restore to Rosalind all that he had wrongfully taken away.

Rosalind’s own nature was too bright and happy to waste time in useless repining, and her deep affection for her cousin made her respond very willingly to Celia’s loving attempts at consolation. The girls’ gay wit and merry chatter never failed, and their leisure moments found additional food for entertainment in the whimsical utterances of the Court fool, or jester, Touchstone. Under his apparent nonsense often lay hidden much quaint philosophy, and Touchstone found his fool’s motley a convenient cloak for levelling many a sharp-edged shaft of truth at his hearers.

On the day appointed for the wrestling match, Rosalind and Celia were among the spectators. Charles had already shown his prowess by speedily overthrowing one after the other three goodly young men. Now they all lay on the ground with broken ribs, and their poor old father made such a doleful lament over his three sons that all the beholders took his part and wept in sympathy.

When Orlando appeared as the next champion, there was a general feeling of dismay and compassion. What chance had this slender lad against the doughty Charles? Duke Frederick, in pity for his youth, would fain have dissuaded him, but he would not be entreated. Rosalind and Celia then tried, but even they were not more successful. Orlando thanked them courteously, but refused to give up the attempt. Since their entreaties were of no avail, the only thing the ladies could do was to bestow on him their best wishes, and this they did most heartily.

The result was a surprise to all. Orlando was the victor, and this time it was the redoubtable Charles who was carried senseless from the field.

Duke Frederick was interested enough in the young wrestler to inquire who he was, but was far from pleased to learn he was a son of Sir Rowland de Boys. Sir Rowland was an honourable gentleman, but he had been no friend to the usurping Duke. Rosalind’s father, on the contrary, had loved Sir Rowland dearly, and by the rest of the world he had been equally esteemed. Celia was hurt by her father’s churlish remarks to Orlando, and tried to make up for them by some kind and gracious words. Rosalind, equally moved, took a chain from her neck and gave it to the young victor.

“Gentleman, wear this for me, one out of suit with fortune, who could give more but that her hand lacks means.”

Orlando would fain have expressed his thanks, but some strange feeling held him speechless. He had overcome the mighty Charles, but he could not master this stronger champion. He was still musing over what had passed, when one of the lords-in-waiting, Le Beau, came to him, and counselled him in friendship to leave the place at once. Duke Frederick had taken a prejudice against him, and was likely to resent everything he did.

“I thank you,” said Orlando. “Pray tell me one thing--which of those two ladies was daughter of the Duke who was here at the wrestling?”

Le Beau answered that it was the smaller of the two ladies. The other was the daughter of the banished Duke, detained by her usurping uncle to keep his own daughter company.

“But I can tell you,” continued Le Beau, “that lately this Duke Frederick has taken a violent displeasure against his gentle niece, for no other reason than that the people love her for her virtues, and pity her for her good father’s sake. I am quite sure his malice against the lady will suddenly break forth.”

Then Le Beau took a courteous farewell, and Orlando went his way, lost in a dream, and murmuring “Heavenly Rosalind!”

For her part, Rosalind had been equally attracted by the gallant young wrestler, and when Celia began to rally her about her pensive looks, she was quite ready to admit the truth.

“In good earnest,” said Celia, “is it possible that you should suddenly take so strong a liking for old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?”

“The Duke, my father, loved his father dearly,” urged Rosalind in self-excuse.

“Does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly?” laughed Celia. “By this sort of reasoning _I_ should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly. And yet I do not hate Orlando.”

“No, faith, for my sake do not hate him!” said Rosalind. “Love him because I do.”

The cousins were interrupted by Duke Frederick, who entered hurriedly, his eyes full of anger. What Le Beau foretold had come to pass. The Duke’s displeasure against Rosalind had been growing for some time, for he was jealous at her being so universally beloved, and alarmed for the safety of his own position. Now, in a few curt words, he ordered her to leave the Court, saying that if in ten days’ time she were still found within twenty miles of it, she should be put to death. Rosalind was amazed and indignant, but all appeals were useless. Celia in vain tried to plead for her cousin. Duke Frederick would listen to no reason. He declared that Rosalind was a traitor, subtle enough to steal the affections of the people away from Celia herself, and that once she was gone Celia would shine to far greater advantage. The sentence he pronounced was irrevocable. Rosalind was banished.

“Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege,” said Celia. “I cannot live out of her company.”

“You are a fool!” was the Duke’s contemptuous answer. Then to Rosalind he added: “You, niece, provide yourself; if you stay longer than the time, you die.”

When her father left them, Celia again strove to cheer her cousin. She utterly refused to be parted from her, insisted on sharing her griefs, and declared that, no matter what Rosalind said, she intended to go with her.

“Why, whither, shall we go?” asked Rosalind.

“To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden,” replied Celia.

This was a good suggestion, and in order to avoid the danger of two high-born and beautiful maidens travelling alone, it was further agreed that Celia should stain her face brown, and attire herself in mean apparel, while Rosalind, who was tall of stature, should for better security, disguise herself as a youth, armed with curtle-axe, and with a boar-spear in her hand.

“Let what fear there will, lie hidden in my woman’s heart,” she said gaily, “at least we’ll have a dashing and a martial outside!”

In their new guise Rosalind declared she would take no worse a name than Jove’s own page--Ganymede; while Celia, in reference to her own banished state, thought that Aliena would be a very suitable name for herself.

“Cousin,” said Rosalind, “what if we tried to steal the clownish fool out of your father’s Court? Would he not be a comfort to us in our travels?”

Celia was delighted with the suggestion.

“Touchstone would go with me all over the wide world,” she said. “Leave me alone to manage him. Now let us go and get our money and jewels together, and devise the fittest time and safest way to hide from the pursuit that will be made when my flight is known. Come! We go contentedly--to _liberty_, and not to banishment!”

In the Forest of Arden

On reaching home after the wrestling match, Orlando was met by the old retainer, Adam, who implored him to fly at once. The fame of his victory had already reached Oliver’s ears, and he was so incensed at the praises lavished on his brother that he was quite resolved to do away with him by some means or other. The faithful old man went on to say he had five hundred crowns, saved during his service with his late master, and he begged Orlando to take this money, and also to let him go with him as his servant. He was old, he said, but still strong and active, and could serve him as well as a younger man.

Orlando was deeply touched by the fidelity and devotion of this old retainer, and willingly agreed to his request, saying that before the money was spent they would doubtless have found some humble means of support. So the outcasts departed: the young man left the home of his father, and the old man the place where he had spent more than sixty years of faithful service.

They started not unhopefully, but matters did not go well with them. Scarcely knowing where to direct their steps, they plunged into the Forest of Arden, and there, in the depths of the greenwood, they lost their way. Worn out with fatigue, almost starving for food, they wandered on, till at last Adam’s strength failed, and he sank to the ground.

“Dear master, I can go no further. Oh, I die for food!” he gasped. “Farewell, kind master!”

With the tenderest words Orlando strove to cheer the poor old man, and, carefully placing him in a more sheltered spot, he dashed off almost desperate in his quest for food.

Not far off in the forest a very different scene was taking place. In the bright days of early summer the days slipped pleasantly past with the banished Duke and his little band of faithful followers. Clad in their foresters’ garb, and living the simple life of outlaws, they hunted, sang, laughed, and feasted under the greenwood tree. The most notable of the band was a certain lord called Jaques, who had been a brilliant and reckless courtier in his early days, but was now a cynic and philosopher, half sad, half satiric, whose moods seemed to vary between biting humour and pensive melancholy. He had a sharp tongue, and took no pains to make himself agreeable, but his quaint moralisings afforded much entertainment to his companions, and especially to the Duke.

On the day when Orlando and Adam were starving in one part of the forest, the Duke and his band were having a merry time in another part. One of the lords, by name Amiens, could sing very pleasingly, and he now led a ditty in praise of their woodland life, while the others joined in the chorus:

“Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

“Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.”

The banquet was spread, and the Duke had taken his place, when Jaques came up, apparently much diverted with something he had just seen.

“A fool! a fool!” he cried. “I met a fool in the forest!”

The cynical lord was amused to find a fellow-philosopher under the motley of a fool, and quoted the mangled scraps of moral wisdom he had let fall, with much enjoyment.

“‘Good-morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘No, sir,’ quoth he, ‘call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’ Then he drew a dial from his pocket, and, looking at it with his dull eyes, said very wisely: ‘It is ten o’clock. Thus we may see how the world wags. An hour ago it was nine o’clock, and in another hour it will be eleven. And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, and so from hour to hour we rot and rot, and thereby hangs a tale.’”

Jaques was greatly diverted at the idea of a fool in motley moralising thus on the time, and declared that henceforth he intended to don a fool’s dress himself, in order that he might have the privilege that fools have, of speaking out his mind freely on all occasions.

“And those that are most hurt with my folly,” he said, “they most must laugh. Dress me in motley, and give me leave to speak my mind, and I will guarantee to cure the world of much evil.”

The Duke would not agree that Jaques’s plan for reforming the world was a good one, and reminded Jaques that he himself was anything but free from faults. Jaques still held to his opinion, and was arguing the matter, when their discussion was interrupted by the startling appearance of a haggard youth with a drawn sword, who demanded food in the most peremptory fashion, and threatened to kill anyone who attempted to eat until his wants were supplied.

“I almost die for food; let me have it!” he cried fiercely.

“Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table,” said the Duke kindly.

When Orlando saw the gentleness of the Duke, and that there was no occasion for such violence on his part, he softened at once, asked their pardon, and explained that he had only put on this stern manner of command because he expected to find everything in the forest rude and savage. He implored them, if ever they had led a gentle, civilised life, and knew what pity was, that they would refrain from eating till he had fetched a poor old man, who was spent with age and hunger. Till he was first satisfied, Orlando said, he would not touch a bit.

The Duke bade Orlando go and fetch Adam, and when they returned he made them sit down and eat before he troubled them with any questions. To give them time to recover, he called for some music, and bade Amiens sing.

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

“Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.”

While the song was being sung, Orlando was able to tell the Duke, in a low voice, a little of his story, and hearing that he was the son of his dear friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, the Duke gave him a hearty welcome, and carried him off to his own cave to hear the rest of his adventures. Old Adam, too, was made right welcome; and so, for the present, he and his master contentedly stayed on with the outlaws.

* * * * *

The fool whom Jaques had met in the forest was Touchstone. Like Orlando and Adam, the other party of wanderers were very weary before they found a resting-place. Rosalind and Celia, attended by the Court jester, had come in search of Rosalind’s father, but so far they had found no trace of the banished Duke. Celia was tired and Touchstone was cross, but Rosalind did her best to encourage her companions.

“Well, this is the Forest of Arden,” she said cheerfully.