The Merchant of Venice Act 3 Scene 2

Please wait — pause a day or two

before you gamble, because if you choose wrong

I lose your company. So hold off a while.

Something tells me — and it isn't love —

that I don't want to lose you. And you know yourself

that hatred doesn't give advice in that tone.

But in case you don't quite understand me —

and yet an unmarried girl has no voice except her thoughts —

I'd keep you here a month or two

before you risked yourself for me. I could teach you

how to choose correctly — but then I'd be breaking my oath.

And I never will. So you may lose me.

But if you do, you'll make me wish I'd sinned —

wish I had broken my word. Curse your eyes: (The second time she has considered rigging her father's test. The first was the glass of Rhine wine in Act 1, offered as a joke. This one is not a joke, and she talks herself out of it in half a line.)

they've bewitched me and split me in two.

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours —

mine, I meant to say; but if mine, then yours,

and so all yours. Oh, these wicked times

put barriers between owners and what belongs to them.

So although I'm yours, I'm not yours. If it turns out that way,

let Fortune go to hell for it, not me.

I'm talking too long, but it's to weigh the time down,

to stretch it out and draw it long,

to keep you from choosing.

Let me choose,

because as things are I'm living on the rack.

On the rack, Bassanio? Then confess

what treason is mixed in with your love.

None except the ugly treason of mistrust,

which makes me fear I'll never have what I love.

There could as easily be friendship and life

between snow and fire as between treason and my love.

Yes — but I suspect you're speaking on the rack,

where men under torture will say anything.

Promise me my life and I'll confess the truth.

Very well — confess and live.

'Confess and love'

would have been the whole of my confession.

What a happy torture, when the one torturing me

teaches me the answers that will set me free.

But let me get to my luck and the chests.

Go on, then. I'm locked inside one of them.

If you love me, you'll find me out. —

Nerissa, and the rest of you, stand well back.

Let music play while he makes his choice.

Then if he loses he makes a swan's ending,

dying away in music. And to make the comparison

fit better, my eyes will be the stream

and watery deathbed for him. He may win —

and then what is the music? Then the music is

the fanfare that sounds as loyal subjects bow

to a newly crowned monarch. It's like

those sweet sounds at daybreak

that creep into a dreaming bridegroom's ear

and call him to his wedding. Now he goes,

with no less bearing but far more love

than young Hercules had when he rescued

the virgin that howling Troy paid as tribute

to the sea monster. I'm the one to be sacrificed;

the rest standing back are the women of Troy,

with tear-blurred faces, come out to watch

how the venture ends. Go on, Hercules.

If you live, I live. I watch this fight with far more

dread than you who are doing the fighting.

Tell me, where is desire bred —

in the heart, or in the head?

How is it conceived, how fed?

Answer, answer.

It is fathered in the eye,

fed by looking; and desire dies

in the very cradle where it lies.

Let's all toll the bell for desire.

I'll start. — Ding, dong, bell. (Three of the rhymes — bred, head, nourishèd — chime with 'lead', and the song's argument is that love entering through the eye is worthless. Whether Portia is coaching him is a question the play leaves open, and it has been argued over for centuries. She has just said she could teach him and won't.)

Ding, dong, bell.

So outward appearances may be the least like the thing itself.

The world is forever taken in by decoration.

In law, what argument is so tainted and corrupt

that, flavoured with a pleasant voice,

it doesn't hide the look of evil? In religion,

what damnable error is there that some solemn face

won't bless and back up with a quotation,

hiding the foulness under handsome decoration?

There's no vice so plain that it doesn't put on

some badge of virtue on the outside.

How many cowards, whose hearts are as unreliable

as stairs made of sand, wear on their chins

the beards of Hercules and scowling Mars —

and who, searched inside, have livers as white as milk;

they've only put on courage's leftovers

to make themselves feared. Look at beauty,

and you'll find it's bought by weight,

which works a miracle of nature:

the women who wear most of it are the lightest.

And those crimped, snaking golden curls

that frisk so playfully in the wind

above a supposed beauty are often known

to be the property of a second head —

the skull that grew them, in the grave.

So decoration is only the treacherous shoreline

of a most dangerous sea; the beautiful scarf

veiling an Indian beauty. In short, (The line is compressed and editors have argued over it for two centuries, but the assumption inside it is plain enough: the scarf is the beautiful part and the face beneath is what needs covering. It is the third time the play has reached for dark skin as its picture of what ornament hides — and this time it is in the hero's mouth, in the speech that wins him the prize.)

it's the appearance of truth that a crafty age puts on

to trap the wisest of us. So then, you showy gold —

indigestible stuff, fit for Midas — I'll have none of you.

Nor any of you either, you pale, common workhorse

passed between man and man. But you — you thin, poor lead,

who threaten rather than promise anything,

your plainness moves me more than eloquence could,

and I choose here. Let joy come of it. (Morocco chose by outside and lost. Arragon chose by desert and lost. Bassanio makes the one argument neither of them made — that ornament lies — and wins. He is also the suitor who borrowed money he could not repay in order to arrive looking richer than he is.)

(aside) How all my other feelings vanish into air —

the doubts, the despair I'd rashly taken up,

the shuddering fear and the green-eyed jealousy.

Oh love, be moderate. Calm this rapture.

Rain your joy down in measure; cut back this excess.

I feel your blessing too much. Make it less,

in case I sicken of it.

What do I find here?

Fair Portia's likeness. What demigod

came this close to creating life? Are these eyes moving?

Or do they only seem to move, riding

on the motion of my own? Here are parted lips,

divided by sweet breath — so sweet a barrier

to separate such sweet friends. Here, in her hair,

the painter has played the spider and woven

a golden net to catch men's hearts,

quicker than gnats in a web. But her eyes —

how could he see well enough to paint them? Having made one,

I'd have thought it could steal both of his

and leave itself without a partner. And yet — as far as

my praise falls short of doing this picture justice,

just that far does the picture

limp behind the real woman. Here's the scroll,

the container and summary of my fortune.

'You who do not choose by sight

have chanced as well and chosen as truly.

Since this luck has fallen to you,

be content and look for no other.

If you're well pleased with this

and count your luck your happiness,

turn to where your lady stands

and claim her with a loving kiss.'

A kind scroll. Fair lady, with your permission —

I come by written instruction, to give and to receive.

Like one of two men competing for a prize

who thinks he's done well in the crowd's eyes,

hearing applause and a general roar,

dizzy, still staring about in doubt

as to whether that cheering is for him or not —

just so, three times lovely lady, I stand here,

unsure whether what I see is real

until it's confirmed, signed and ratified by you.

You see me, Lord Bassanio, standing here,

just as I am. For my own sake alone

I wouldn't be ambitious enough to wish

myself much better — but for you

I'd be sixty times what I am,

a thousand times more beautiful, ten thousand times

richer, so that simply to stand high in your estimation

I might, in virtues, looks, property and friends,

be beyond counting. But the whole sum of me

amounts to something which, put bluntly,

is an untaught girl, unschooled and inexperienced — (In two acts she will walk into a Venetian courtroom, out-argue the finest lawyers in the city and settle the case. Nothing in the play suggests she believes a word of this.)

lucky in this, that she isn't yet too old

to learn; luckier still,

that she isn't so slow-witted that she can't learn;

and luckiest of all, that her gentle spirit

hands itself over to yours to be directed

as by her lord, her governor and her king.

Myself, and what is mine, is now made over

to you and yours. A moment ago I was master

of this fine house, master of my servants,

queen over myself. And now, just now,

this house, these servants and this same self of mine

are yours, my lord's. I give them with this ring — (handing him a ring)

which, if you ever part with, lose or give away,

let it foretell the ruin of your love

and give me grounds to denounce you.

Madam, you've robbed me of every word.

Only my blood speaks to you, in my veins,

and there's such confusion in my faculties

as follows a fine speech delivered

by a much-loved prince —

the buzz of the delighted crowd,

where every separate thing blends together

into a wilderness of nothing, except joy

both spoken and unspoken. But when this ring

leaves this finger, life leaves this body.

Then say it outright: Bassanio is dead. (Both of them stake everything on the ring inside twenty lines, and both of them mean it. That is the whole mechanism of the play's last act, set up here while everyone is happy.)

My lord and lady, now it's our turn —

we who stood by and watched our wishes come good —

to cry, 'Joy to you, joy to you, my lord and lady!'

My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady,

I wish you all the joy you could wish yourselves,

since I'm sure you'd wish none away from me.

And when your honours intend to formalise

your promise to each other, I beg you,

let me be married at the same time.

With all my heart — if you can get a wife.

Thank you, your lordship — you've got me one.

My eyes, my lord, can move as quickly as yours.

You saw the mistress; I noticed the maid.

You fell in love, I fell in love — delay

suits me no better than it does you, my lord.

Your fortune depended on those chests,

and so, as it turns out, did mine.

Because courting here till I was sweating,

and swearing until the roof of my mouth was dry

with oaths of love, I finally — if the promise holds —

got a promise from this lovely one here

to have her love, provided your luck

won her mistress.

Is this true, Nerissa?

It is, madam — provided you're happy about it.

And do you mean this honestly, Gratiano?

I do, my lord.

Our celebration will be much the better for your marriage.

We'll bet them a thousand ducats on who has the first boy.

What — with the stake laid down?

No — we'd never win at that game with the stake down.

But who's this coming? Lorenzo and his infidel? (She converted in order to marry him and he is standing next to her. Gratiano's word for her is the one she changed religion to escape, and nobody in the scene remarks on it.)

And my old Venetian friend Salerio too?

Lorenzo, Salerio — welcome here,

if my very new standing in this house

gives me the authority to welcome you. (to Portia) With your permission,

I welcome my close friends and countrymen,

sweet Portia.

And so do I, my lord. They're entirely welcome.

Thank you, your honour. For my part, my lord,

I hadn't intended to visit you here,

but running into Salerio on the road,

he pressed me past all refusing

to come along with him.

I did, my lord,

and I had reason to. (handing Bassanio a letter)

Signior Antonio

sends you his regards.

Before I open his letter,

tell me, please — how is my good friend?

Not ill, my lord, unless in his mind;

and not well, except in his mind. That letter

will show you how he stands.

Nerissa, look after that stranger — make her welcome. —

Your hand, Salerio. What's the news from Venice?

How is that princely merchant, good Antonio?

I know he'll be glad of our success.

We're the Jasons — we've won the Golden Fleece. (Bassanio used the same comparison in the play's first scene, when Portia was still an investment opportunity. It has taken until now for someone to say it out loud in front of her.)

I wish you'd won the fleece he's lost.

There's something sharp in that paper

that's draining the colour out of Bassanio's face.

Some dear friend dead — nothing else in the world

could so alter the composure

of a steady man. What — worse and worse? —

By your leave, Bassanio: I'm half of you,

and I must freely have half of whatever

that paper is bringing you.

Oh, sweet Portia —

here are some of the most unpleasant words

that ever stained paper. Gentle lady,

when I first declared my love to you

I told you frankly that all the wealth I had

ran in my veins — I was a gentleman.

And that was true. And yet, dear lady,

valuing myself at nothing, you'll see

how much of a boaster I was. When I told you

my estate was nothing, I should have told you

that I was worse than nothing — because in fact

I've pledged myself to a dear friend,

and pledged my friend to his outright enemy,

to fund me. Here is a letter, lady, (He is telling her this after the wedding contract, not before. She has just handed over her house, her servants and herself.)

the paper standing for my friend's body,

and every word in it a gaping wound

pouring out his lifeblood. — But is it true, Salerio?

Have all his ventures failed? What, not one got through?

From Tripoli, from Mexico and England,

from Lisbon, Barbary and India —

and not one ship escaped the terrible touch

of merchant-wrecking rocks?

Not one, my lord.

And besides, it seems that even if he had

the cash in hand to pay the Jew off,

he wouldn't take it. I never knew

a creature in the shape of a man

so eager and so hungry to destroy another.

He's at the Duke morning and night,

and challenges the very liberty of the state

if they refuse him justice. Twenty merchants,

the Duke himself, and the grandest

of the Venetian nobles have all reasoned with him,

but none can shift him off his spiteful claim

of forfeit, of justice, and of his bond.

When I lived with him, I heard him swear

to Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,

that he'd rather have Antonio's flesh

than twenty times the value of the sum

he owed him. And I know, my lord,

that if law and authority and power don't refuse him,

it will go badly for poor Antonio. (Her only speech in the scene. She reports private conversation from inside her father's house, to the men about to take him to court, and it is the last thing she says for the rest of the act.)

Is it your dear friend who's in this trouble?

The dearest friend I have, the kindest man,

the best-natured and most tireless spirit

in doing kindnesses — a man in whom

the old Roman sense of honour shows more

than in anyone else alive in Italy.

What sum does he owe the Jew?

Three thousand ducats, on my account.

What — no more than that?

Pay him six thousand and cancel the bond.

Double the six thousand, then triple it,

before a friend of that description

loses a hair through Bassanio's fault. (The sum the whole plot has turned on is small change to her. Two acts of anguish are dissolved in four words, and nobody has thought to ask her until now.)

First come with me to church and call me your wife,

and then away to Venice, to your friend.

You'll never lie beside Portia

with a troubled conscience. You'll have gold

to pay the trifling debt twenty times over.

When it's paid, bring your true friend back with you.

In the meantime my maid Nerissa and I

will live like unmarried women and widows. Come on —

you leave on your wedding day.

Make your friends welcome, look cheerful.

Since you cost me dearly, I'll love you dearly.

But let me hear your friend's letter.

(reading) 'Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all been lost, my creditors are turning cruel, my finances are very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit — and since paying it makes it impossible

for me to live, all debts between us are cancelled if

I might only see you before I die. Even so, do as you please. If your love doesn't persuade you to come, don't let my letter do it.' (Twenty-eight words of release, then a sentence that makes refusing impossible. He tells Bassanio he is free to stay away, in a letter written to be read aloud in front of his new wife.)

My love — settle everything and go.

Since I have your kind permission to leave,

I'll hurry. But until I come back,

no bed will be guilty of delaying me,

and no rest will come between the two of us.