The Merchant of Venice Act 2 Scene 2

My conscience will certainly let me run away from this Jew, my master. The devil is at my elbow tempting me, saying, 'Gobbo,

Lancelet Gobbo, good Lancelet' — or 'good Gobbo' — or 'good Lancelet Gobbo, use your legs, get a head start, run for it.' My conscience says, 'No. Take care, honest Lancelet; take care, honest Gobbo' — or as before, 'honest Lancelet Gobbo, don't run; be above running with your heels.' Well, the very boldest devil tells me to clear off. 'Away!' says the devil. 'Off you go!' says the devil. 'For heaven's sake, pluck up some courage,' says the devil, 'and run.'

Then my conscience, hanging round the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, 'My honest friend

Lancelet, being an honest man's son' — or rather an honest woman's son, because my father did have a bit of a taste for things, a bit of a wandering appetite — well, my conscience says, 'Lancelet, don't budge.' 'Budge,' says the devil. 'Don't budge,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' I say, 'you give good advice.' 'Devil,' I say, 'you give good advice.'

If I follow my conscience I should stay with the

Jew my master, who — pardon the expression — is a sort of devil. And if I run away from the Jew I'd be following the devil, who — begging your pardon — is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation. And in all conscience, my conscience is a pretty hard-hearted conscience to be advising me to stay with the Jew. The devil gives the friendlier advice. I'll run, devil. My heels are at your command. I'll run. (A morality play with the moral compass reversed: the conscience argues for staying, the devil for leaving, and he concludes the devil is the nicer of the two. 'Incarnation' is his mistake for 'incarnate' — the first of many.)

Master young man — you — please, which is the way to Master Jew's house?

(aside) Good heavens, this is my true begotten father — who, being worse than sand-blind, gravel-blind even, doesn't recognise me. I'll try some confusions on him. ('Sand-blind' was a real word for half-blind; 'gravel-blind' is Lancelet's own invention, on the logic that gravel is bigger than sand. And he means 'try conclusions' — run an experiment — which he gets wrong in a way that describes exactly what he then does.)

Master young gentleman, please, which is the way to Master Jew's house?

Turn to your right at the next turning, but at the turning after that, go left. Then at the very next turning, turn neither way, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house.

By God's little saints, that'll be a hard road to find.

Can you tell me whether one Lancelet, who lives with him, lives with him or not?

Do you mean young Master Lancelet?

(aside) Watch this — now I'll start the waterworks. — Do you mean young Master Lancelet?

No 'master', sir — just a poor man's son. His father, though I say it myself, is an honest, extremely poor man, and — thank God — still going.

Well, let his father be whatever he likes; we're talking about young Master Lancelet.

Your worship's friend, and just Lancelet, sir.

But I ask you — ergo, old man, ergo — I beg you: do you mean young Master Lancelet?

Of Lancelet, if it please your mastership.

Ergo, Master Lancelet. Don't speak of Master

Lancelet, father, because the young gentleman — according to Fates and Destinies and suchlike sayings, the

Three Sisters and similar branches of learning — is indeed deceased. Or, as you'd say in plain language, gone to heaven.

God forbid! The boy was the very walking-stick of my old age, my very prop.

(aside) Do I look like a club or a shed post, a walking-stick or a prop? — Do you know me, father?

Sadly no, I don't know you, young gentleman.

But please tell me — is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?

Don't you know me, father?

Sadly, sir, I'm sand-blind. I don't know you.

No — in fact, even with your eyesight you might fail to recognise me. It's a wise father who knows his own child. Well, old man, I'll tell you news of your son. (kneeling) Give me your blessing.

The truth will come out. Murder can't stay hidden for long — a man's son can, but in the end the truth will out. (The proverb runs the other way round: it is a wise *child* that knows his own father. He flips it while kneeling in front of a father who cannot tell who he is — in a play whose other father-and-child story is about to go badly wrong.)

Please stand up, sir. I'm sure you aren't

Lancelet, my boy.

Please, let's have no more messing about and give me your blessing. I am Lancelet — your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

I can't believe you're my son.

I don't know what to make of that. But I am Lancelet, the Jew's servant, and I'm sure Margery your wife is my mother.

Her name is Margery, right enough. I'll swear that if you're Lancelet, you're my own flesh and blood. Lord be praised — what a beard you've grown! You've got more hair on your chin than Dobbin my cart-horse has on his tail.

(standing up) Then it must be that

Dobbin's tail is growing backwards, because I'm certain he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face the last time I saw him.

Lord, how you've changed. How do you and your master get on? I've brought him a present.

How do you two get along now?

Well enough, well enough. But for my own part, since I've made up my mind to run away, I shan't rest until I've put some distance behind me. My master is a Jew through and through.

Give him a present? Give him a noose. I'm starving in his service — you can count my ribs off on my fingers. Father, I'm glad you've come.

Give me your present for one Master Bassanio, who hands out splendid new uniforms. If I don't get to serve him, I'll run as far as God has laid down ground. Oh, wonderful luck — here comes the man. Go to him, father, because I'm a Jew if I serve the Jew a day longer. (He uses the word as a curse to swear on, in the same sentence as the man it names. Nobody on stage notices, which is the point of putting it in a comic servant's mouth.)

(to an attendant) You may do that, but be quick about it — supper is to be ready by five at the very latest. Have these letters delivered, get the uniforms made, and ask Gratiano to come to my lodgings shortly.

Go to him, father.

God bless your worship.

Thank you. Did you want something from me?

Here's my son, sir, a poor boy —

Not a poor boy, sir — the rich Jew's servant, who would, sir, as my father will specify —

He has a great infection, sir, as one might say, to serve —

Indeed, the long and short of it is, I serve the

Jew, and I have a desire, as my father will specify —

His master and he — begging your worship's pardon — are hardly the best of friends —

To be brief, the plain truth is that the Jew, having wronged me, causes me — as my father, being, I hope, an old man, will frutify to you —

I have a dish of doves here that I'd like to give your worship, and my request is —

In short, the request is impertinent to myself, as your worship will hear from this honest old man — and though I say it, though an old man he's a poor man, my father —

One of you speak for both. What do you want?

To serve you, sir.

That is the very defect of the matter, sir. (Four mangled words in twenty lines, from both of them: 'infection' for affection, 'frutify' for certify, 'impertinent' for pertinent, 'defect' for effect. Father and son are competing to sound impressive in front of a gentleman, and the father is no better at it than the son.)

(to Lancelet) I know you well. Your request is granted.

Shylock your master spoke to me today

and recommended you — if it counts as promotion

to leave a rich Jew's service and become

the servant of such a poor gentleman.

The old proverb is very neatly divided between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have 'the grace of God', sir, and he has 'enough'. (The proverb is 'the grace of God is enough.' He has split it in half and given one half to each man — Bassanio the grace, Shylock the money — and the compliment is also an insult, though nobody stops to work out whose.)

Nicely put. — Off you go, old man, with your son. —

Say goodbye to your old master, and ask for

directions to my lodgings. (to an attendant) Give him a uniform

with more braid on it than the others. See to it.

In you go, father. I can't get a job, can I! I haven't got a tongue in my head! Well — (studying his palm) if any man in Italy has a finer palm to swear an oath on — I'm going to have good luck, no question. Look at that lifeline. And here's a modest little handful of wives — well, fifteen wives is nothing. Eleven widows and nine unmarried girls is a modest enough income for one man. And then escaping drowning three times, and nearly losing my life on the edge of a featherbed — these are modest escapes indeed. Well, if Luck is a woman, she's a good sort for this business.

Come on, father. I'll say goodbye to the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.

Please, good Leonardo, see to this. (handing him a paper)

Once these things are bought and properly stowed,

hurry back — because tonight I'm entertaining

my most valued friends. Off with you, go.

I'll do my very best in the matter.

(to Leonardo) Where's your master?

Over there, sir — walking.

Signior Bassanio!

Gratiano!

I have a request to make of you.

It's granted.

You mustn't refuse me. I have to go with you to Belmont.

Then you must. But listen, Gratiano —

you're too wild, too rough and too loud.

They're qualities that suit you well enough,

and to eyes like ours they don't look like faults.

But where you aren't known, they come across as

rather too free. Please take the trouble

to cool that leaping spirit of yours

with a few cold drops of modesty, in case your wild behaviour

gets me misjudged where I'm going,

and I lose my chances.

Signior Bassanio, listen.

If I don't dress and behave soberly,

speak respectfully, swear only occasionally,

carry prayer books in my pocket, look modest —

more than that, cover my eyes during grace

with my hat, like this, and sigh and say 'amen' —

and keep up every last piece of polite behaviour

like a man well practised in looking solemn

to please his grandmother — then never trust me again.

Well — we'll see how you behave.

No — but tonight doesn't count. You're not to judge me

by what we get up to tonight.

No, that would be a shame.

In fact I'd ask you to put on

your loudest party manners, because we have friends

who intend to enjoy themselves. But goodbye for now —

I've business to attend to.

And I must go to Lorenzo and the others.

But we'll come and see you at supper time.