his mouth such powerful arguments, and such eloquent pleas against the social injustice of which he is the victim, that the spectators of The Merchant of Venice ought to have gone away in a spirit much more likely to make them treat Jews with a moderate amount of Christian charity, than if Shakespeare had represented Shylock as a phenomenon of noble unselfishness like Gerontus. I have pointed out instances (see notes 80, 210) where, just as Shylock is beginning to exhibit some noble feeling, he is made to harp upon his avarice lest it should seem that the dramatist was about to make too strong an appeal for sympathy in the Jew's favour. Shylock, unlike Marlowe's Barabas, has no mean selfishness in his character. He loves his money, not for the pleasures it can purchase for him, nor with that narrow-minded vanity in the sense of possession which the mere miser feels; but rather because it is the evidence of his own thrift and industry, the substantial witness, in one respect at least, to his superiority over the Christians who despise and persecute him. The insults, which Antonio has publicly inflicted on him, are felt by him not so much as directed against himself, personally, as against his tribe, and the sacred nation to which he belongs. Shylock would never have been guilty of betraying the interests of his fellow-countrymen for his own selfish ends, as Barabas cynically declares that he would do. (Jew of Malta, act i. Marlowe's Works, p. 148.) Nor could he ever be capable of those low vulgar crimes of which Barabas boasts. Shylock loves his Jessica with no ignoble love, although he feels bitterly her desertion of him and her renunciation of the old faith. He could never have conceived such a cowardly and cruel murder as Barabas plans against his daughter. In short, Shylock is the creation of a man with large-hearted human sympathies, and of a skilful dramatist; Barabas is the work of one who was devoid of any sympathetic qualities, of a powerful but gloomy poet, whose dramatic talent was extremely limited. he has not given us, in his comedies at least, any female characters that could be said to possess much individuality: the heroines of his earlier comedies are all of a commonplace type; and except, perhaps, in the case of Julia (Two Gentlemen of Verona), do not excite our sympathy to any remarkable degree. We have certainly seen, in Juliet and Constance, two of Shakespeare's most interesting heroines; though Juliet is incomparably the finer creation of the two. But in the case of both those characters the nature of the play does not admit of the introduction of the element of comedy. Portia, however, is a worthy predecessor of Beatrice and Rosalind; full of spirit, and of that happy playfulness which it is the privilege of innocence to possess, even where innocence is not accompanied by ignorance of the world and of the evil therein. Portia, no more than Beatrice and Rosalind, is afraid of alluding to some things by name which, in our more prudish times, are spoken of by ladies only with the aid of some laboured periphrasis, and accompanied by blushes which, sometimes, may be suspected of being scarcely less laboured. In the case of Portia it would seem as if the very restrictions, imposed upon her by her father's will, instigated her to allow herself more liberty of speech and action than we should expect in an unmarried woman even of that day. But, however free Portia may be in her speech, and however much the independence of her actions may shock conventionality by the deplorable disregard for chaperons and propriety which it evinces, we must not fall into the error of thinking that Shakespeare intended the Lady of Belmont to be any relation, however distant, of those extremely free-minded heroines for whom some of his contemporaries showed such a partiality. Portia may joke with Nerissa about her lovers, and with her husband about the doctor who had obtained her ring; but there is no more of the wanton in her, perhaps less, than in those very mealymouthed young ladies who prate, at such length, about their virtue in dramas of more modern times, e.g. in the tragedies of the eighteenth century. When Portia sees her way to helping her husband's friend in his dire necessity, she does not deign to consider what the Mrs. Grundy of that time would say. She dons her mannish dress, and wears the lawyer's gown, without stopping to question the propriety of such a step. She assumes all those "Woman's Rights," to which some of the sex lay claim, without any preliminary speechifying, and without the least abatement of all those feminine charms which unregenerate man most loves in woman. When one considers the fearlessness and promptitude of action which Portia displays, one cannot help thinking that, if her father's absurd legacy of the caskets had resulted in the choice of an uncongenial husband, Portia would not have found it difficult to set aside the parental injunction in spirit, if not in the letter. At anyrate we may safely prophesy that an unacceptable husband would not have had it all his own way. The next most important character to Shylock and Portia is Antonio; a character evidently suggested, as I have already said, by the Ansaldo of the old novel. Nothing can exceed his unselfishness, his loyalty and friendship, his gentle patience in suffering, his beautiful equanimity in calamity. Misfortune after misfortune wrings from him no hasty expression; and the imminence of a most horrible death cannot shake his courage with the slightest breath of fear. Even against Shylock, the "faithless Jew," whose usury he was never tired of denouncing, whose national pride he never scrupled to wound, and whose person even he was so ungenerous as to insult, -against the man whom he had taken some pains to make his bitter foe,-even against him, when he finds himself in his power, he does not seem to feel any anger or malice. Nothing could illustrate more forcibly the intolerance which is ever the danger of a dominant faith,-more especially when that faith rests upon the consciousness that it is accompanied by the very best of works,-than the character of Antonio, as Shakespeare has drawn him. To every one else he is the model of a true gentleman and a perfect Christian; but to Shylock he is rude, 252 contemptuous, morally cruel, and sometimes, one is tempted to say, even mean. Shakespeare might have put into the mouth of Shylock the most high-flown sentiments of chivalrous generosity; he might have multiplied in him such acts of almost reckless selfsacrifice as those attributed to Gerontus in The Three Ladies of London (see above); but he would not have so cunningly won over the sympathies of the audience to the side of Shylock, in spite of his abominable avarice and relentless cruelty, as he does by making his persecutor a character whom everyone must respect and whom most men would love. In addition to this he contrasts the physical temperance and moral dignity of Shylock with the thoughtless prodigality of Bassanio, and the petty taunting wit of Gratiano. The latter character seems to have some reminiscence of Mercutio in it, and a little foreshadowing of Benedick. He is a laughing philosopher; a thorough worldling, without the robust cynicism of Mercutio, or the half-affected misogyny of Benedick. He is a slight but clever piece of characterization; a capital foil, no less to the serious benevolence of Antonio, than to the dignified malice of Shylock. Bassanio has not so much individuality as we should expect in the man whom such a woman as Portia chose for her husband. Perhaps she chose by the eye rather than by the mind. But still there is a frankness about Bassanio, a warm-hearted loyalty towards his friend, which make one feel that at heart he was a good fellow. The character, dramatically speaking, is dwarfed by the side of Portia and Shylock: but, as a means of displaying the art of graceful love-making, an art which seems almost to have perished on our stage, it is a part well worth the study of those who aspire to the position of jeune premier. The minor characters of The Merchant of Venice all show an advance in the art of characterization; they all help to give to the play that attractiveness in the eyes of an audience which, let us hope, it will long continue to possess. SCENE I. Venice. A street. ACT I. Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO. Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There, where your argosies? with portly sail,Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,Do overpeer the petty traffickers, 11 That curt'sy to them, do them reverence, forth, 1 In sooth, in truth. 2 Argosies, large merchant ships. 3 Venture, commercial risk. The word is still used in this sense. 16 The better part of my affections would Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;5 And every object that might make me fear 20 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad. Salar. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats; And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs, To kiss her burial. [Should I go to church, And see the holy edifice of stone, 30 And not bethink me straight of dangerous) rocks, 4 Still, constantly. 5 Roads, anchorages. 6 Andrew, the name of the ship. 7 Vailing, lowering. And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,— 4 Exceeding strange, i.e. quite strangers. 5 Respect upon, regard for. 6 Play the fool, i.e. the part of the fool. 7 And do, i.e. and who do. 8 Wilful stillness, obstinate silence. Entertain, keep. 10 Opinion, i.e. reputation 11 Profound conceit, deep thought. 12 As who as if any one. Gra. Thanks, i' faith; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. Ant. Is that any thing now? Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the search. Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is the 130 From such a noble rate; but my chief care And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, 140 I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight 12 151 To wind about my love with circumstance; 16 Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left; 19 161 16 Circumstance, circumlocution. 17 Of my uttermost, i.e. of my willingness to aid you to the utmost. 18 Prest, ready. 19 Richly left, i.e. that has inherited a large fortune. 20 Sometime, formerly. |