sort that stands no nonsense, threatened him with arrest unless he paid
his debt immediately. This creditor had brought a police officer with
him, and Angelo was relieved to see Antipholus of Ephesus coming out of
the house where he had been dining because he had been locked out of The
Phoenix. Bitter was Angelo's dismay when Antipholus denied receipt of
the chain. Angelo could have sent his mother to prison if she had said
that, and he gave Antipholus of Ephesus in charge.
At this moment up came Dromio of Syracuse and told the wrong Antipholus
that he had shipped his goods, and that a favorable wind was blowing.
To the ears of Antipholus of Ephesus this talk was simple nonsense. He
would gladly have beaten the slave, but contented himself with crossly
telling him to hurry to Adriana and bid her send to her arrested husband
a purse of money which she would find in his desk.
Though Adriana was furious with her husband because she thought he had
been making love to her sister, she did not prevent Luciana from
getting the purse, and she bade Dromio of Syracuse bring home his master
immediately.
Unfortunately, before Dromio could reach the police station he met his
real master, who had never been arrested, and did not understand what
he meant by offering him a purse. Antipholus of Syracuse was further
surprised when a lady whom he did not know asked him for a chain that he
had promised her. She was, of course, the lady with whom Antipholus of
Ephesus had dined when his brother was occupying his place at table.
“Avaunt, thou witch!” was the answer which, to her astonishment, she
received.
Meanwhile Antipholus of Ephesus waited vainly for the money which was
to have released him. Never a good-tempered man, he was crazy with anger
when Dromio of Ephesus, who, of course, had not been instructed to fetch
a purse, appeared with nothing more useful than a rope. He beat the
slave in the street despite the remonstrance of the police officer;
and his temper did not mend when Adriana, Luciana, and a doctor arrived
under the impression that he was mad and must have his pulse felt. He
raged so much that men came forward to bind him. But the kindness of
Adriana spared him this shame. She promised to pay the sum demanded of
him, and asked the doctor to lead him to The Phoenix.
Angelo's merchant creditor being paid, the two were friendly again,
and might soon have been seen chatting before an abbey about the odd
behavior of Antipholus of Ephesus. “Softly,” said the merchant at last,
“that's he, I think.”
It was not; it was Antipholus of Syracuse with his servant Dromio,
and he wore Angelo's chain round his neck! The reconciled pair fairly
pounced upon him to know what he meant by denying the receipt of the
chain he had the impudence to wear. Antipholus of Syracuse lost his
temper, and drew his sword, and at that moment Adriana and several
others appeared. “Hold!” shouted the careful wife. “Hurt him not; he is
mad. Take his sword away. Bind him--and Dromio too.”
Dromio of Syracuse did not wish to be bound, and he said to his master,
“Run, master! Into that abbey, quick, or we shall be robbed!”
They accordingly retreated into the abbey.
Adriana, Luciana, and a crowd remained outside, and the Abbess came out,
and said, “People, why do you gather here?”
“To fetch my poor distracted husband,” replied Adriana.
Angelo and the merchant remarked that they had not known that he was
mad.
Adriana then told the Abbess rather too much about her wifely worries,
for the Abbess received the idea that Adriana was a shrew, and that
if her husband was distracted he had better not return to her for the
present.
Adriana determined, therefore, to complain to Duke Solinus, and, lo and
behold! a minute afterwards the great man appeared with officers and two
others. The others were AEgeon and the headsman. The thousand marks had
not been found, and AEgeon's fate seemed sealed.
Ere the Duke could pass the abbey Adriana knelt before him, and told a
woeful tale of a mad husband rushing about stealing jewelry and drawing
his sword, adding that the Abbess refused to allow her to lead him home.
The Duke bade the Abbess be summoned, and no sooner had he given the
order than a servant from The Phoenix ran to Adriana with the tale that
his master had singed off the doctor's beard.
“Nonsense!” said Adriana, “he's in the abbey.”
“As sure as I live I speak the truth,” said the servant.
Antipholus of Syracuse had not come out of the abbey, before his
brother of Ephesus prostrated himself in front of the Duke, exclaiming,
“Justice, most gracious Duke, against that woman.” He pointed to
Adriana. “She has treated another man like her husband in my own house.”
Even while he was speaking AEgeon said, “Unless I am delirious, I see my
son Antipholus.”
No one noticed him, and Antipholus of Ephesus went on to say how the
doctor, whom he called “a threadbare juggler,” had been one of a gang
who tied him to his slave Dromio, and thrust them into a vault whence he
had escaped by gnawing through his bonds.
The Duke could not understand how the same man who spoke to him was
seen to go into the abbey, and he was still wondering when AEgeon asked
Antipholus of Ephesus if he was not his son. He replied, “I never saw
my father in my life;” but so deceived was AEgeon by his likeness to
the brother whom he had brought up, that he said, “Thou art ashamed to
acknowledge me in misery.”
Soon, however, the Abbess advanced with Antipholus of Syracuse and
Dromio of Syracuse.
Then cried Adriana, “I see two husbands or mine eyes deceive me;” and
Antipholus, espying his father, said, “Thou art AEgeon or his ghost.”
It was a day of surprises, for the Abbess said, “I will free that man by
paying his fine, and gain my husband whom I lost. Speak, AEgeon, for I
am thy wife AEmilia.”
The Duke was touched. “He is free without a fine,” he said.
So AEgeon and AEmilia were reunited, and Adriana and her husband
reconciled; but no one was happier than Antipholus of Syracuse, who, in
the Duke's presence, went to Luciana and said, “I told you I loved you.
Will you be my wife?”
Her answer was given by a look, and therefore is not written.
The two Dromios were glad to think they would receive no more beatings.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
Antonio was a rich and prosperous merchant of Venice. His ships were
on nearly every sea, and he traded with Portugal, with Mexico, with
England, and with India. Although proud of his riches, he was very
generous with them, and delighted to use them in relieving the wants of
his friends, among whom his relation, Bassanio, held the first place.
Now Bassanio, like many another gay and gallant gentleman, was reckless
and extravagant, and finding that he had not only come to the end of his
fortune, but was also unable to pay his creditors, he went to Antonio
for further help.
“To you, Antonio,” he said, “I owe the most in money and in love: and I
have thought of a plan to pay everything I owe if you will but help me.”
“Say what I can do, and it shall be done,” answered his friend.
Then said Bassanio, “In Belmont is a lady richly left, and from all
quarters of the globe renowned suitors come to woo her, not only because
she is rich, but because she is beautiful and good as well. She looked
on me with such favor when last we met, that I feel sure that I should
win her away from all rivals for her love had I but the means to go to
Belmont, where she lives.”
“All my fortunes,” said Antonio, “are at sea, and so I have no ready
money; but luckily my credit is good in Venice, and I will borrow for
you what you need.”
There was living in Venice at this time a rich money-lender, named
Shylock. Antonio despised and disliked this man very much, and treated
him with the greatest harshness and scorn. He would thrust him, like a
cur, over his threshold, and would even spit on him. Shylock submitted
to all these indignities with a patient shrug; but deep in his heart he
cherished a desire for revenge on the rich, smug merchant. For Antonio
both hurt his pride and injured his business. “But for him,” thought
Shylock, “I should be richer by half a million ducats. On the market
place, and wherever he can, he denounces the rate of interest I charge,
and--worse than that--he lends out money freely.”
So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan of three thousand ducats
to Antonio for three months, Shylock hid his hatred, and turning to
Antonio, said--“Harshly as you have treated me, I would be friends with
you and have your love. So I will lend you the money and charge you no
interest. But, just for fun, you shall sign a bond in which it shall be
agreed that if you do not repay me in three months' time, then I shall
have the right to a pound of your flesh, to be cut from what part of
your body I choose.”
“No,” cried Bassanio to his friend, “you shall run no such risk for me.”
“Why, fear not,” said Antonio, “my ships will be home a month before the
time. I will sign the bond.”
Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means to go to Belmont, there to
woo the lovely Portia. The very night he started, the money-lender's
pretty daughter, Jessica, ran away from her father's house with her
lover, and she took with her from her father's hoards some bags of
ducats and precious stones. Shylock's grief and anger were terrible to
see. His love for her changed to hate. “I would she were dead at my
feet and the jewels in her ear,” he cried. His only comfort now was in
hearing of the serious losses which had befallen Antonio, some of whose
ships were wrecked. “Let him look to his bond,” said Shylock, “let him
look to his bond.”
Meanwhile Bassanio had reached Belmont, and had visited the fair Portia.
He found, as he had told Antonio, that the rumor of her wealth and
beauty had drawn to her suitors from far and near. But to all of them
Portia had but one reply. She would only accept that suitor who would
pledge himself to abide by the terms of her father's will. These were
conditions that frightened away many an ardent wooer. For he who would
win Portia's heart and hand, had to guess which of three caskets held
her portrait. If he guessed aright, then Portia would be his bride; if
wrong, then he was bound by oath never to reveal which casket he chose,
never to marry, and to go away at once.
The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The gold one bore this
inscription:--“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;”
the silver one had this:--“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he
deserves;” while on the lead one were these words:--“Who chooseth me
must give and hazard all he hath.” The Prince of Morocco, as brave as he
was black, was among the first to submit to this test. He chose the
gold casket, for he said neither base lead nor silver could contain her
picture. So be chose the gold casket, and found inside the likeness of
what many men desire--death.
After him came the haughty Prince of Arragon, and saying, “Let me have
what I deserve--surely I deserve the lady,” he chose the silver one, and
found inside a fool's head. “Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?”
he cried.
Then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would have delayed him from
making his choice from very fear of his choosing wrong. For she loved
him dearly, even as he loved her. “But,” said Bassanio, “let me choose at
once, for, as I am, I live upon the rack.”
Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and play while her gallant
lover made his choice. And Bassanio took the oath and walked up to the
caskets--the musicians playing softly the while. “Mere outward show,” he
said, “is to be despised. The world is still deceived with ornament, and
so no gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose the lead casket;
joy be the consequence!” And opening it, he found fair Portia's portrait
inside, and he turned to her and asked if it were true that she was his.
“Yes,” said Portia, “I am yours, and this house is yours, and with them
I give you this ring, from which you must never part.”
And Bassanio, saying that he could hardly speak for joy, found words to
swear that he would never part with the ring while he lived.
Then suddenly all his happiness was dashed with sorrow, for messengers
came from Venice to tell him that Antonio was ruined, and that Shylock
demanded from the Duke the fulfilment of the bond, under which he was
entitled to a pound of the merchant's flesh. Portia was as grieved as
Bassanio to hear of the danger which threatened his friend.
“First,” she said, “take me to church and make me your wife, and then
go to Venice at once to help your friend. You shall take with you money
enough to pay his debt twenty times over.”
But when her newly-made husband had gone, Portia went after him, and
arrived in Venice disguised as a lawyer, and with an introduction from
a celebrated lawyer Bellario, whom the Duke of Venice had called in
to decide the legal questions raised by Shylock's claim to a pound of
Antonio's flesh. When the Court met, Bassanio offered Shylock twice the
money borrowed, if he would withdraw his claim. But the money-lender's
only answer was--
“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.”
It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her own
husband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of the great
Bellario's introduction, and left the settlement of the case to her.
Then in noble words she bade Shylock have mercy. But he was deaf to her
entreaties. “I will have the pound of flesh,” was his reply.
“What have you to say?” asked Portia of the merchant.
“But little,” he answered; “I am armed and well prepared.”
“The Court awards you a pound of Antonio's flesh,” said Portia to the
money-lender.
“Most righteous judge!” cried Shylock. “A sentence: come, prepare.”
“Tarry a little. This bond gives you no right to Antonio's blood, only
to his flesh. If, then, you spill a drop of his blood, all your property
will be forfeited to the State. Such is the Law.”
And Shylock, in his fear, said, “Then I will take Bassanio's offer.”
“No,” said Portia sternly, “you shall have nothing but your bond. Take
your pound of flesh, but remember, that if you take more or less, even
by the weight of a hair, you will lose your property and your life.”
Shylock now grew very much frightened. “Give me my three thousand ducats
that I lent him, and let him go.”
Bassanio would have paid it to him, but said Portia, “No! He shall have
nothing but his bond.”
“You, a foreigner,” she added, “have sought to take the life of a
Venetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law, your life and goods are
forfeited. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.”
Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would have been shown to
Shylock had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the money-lender
forfeited half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle the other
half on his daughter's husband, and with this he had to be content.
Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to part
with the ring his wife had given him, and with which he had promised
never to part, and when on his return to Belmont he confessed as much to
Portia, she seemed very angry, and vowed she would not be friends with
him until she had her ring again. But at last she told him that it was
she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his friend's life, and
got the ring from him. So Bassanio was forgiven, and made happier
than ever, to know how rich a prize he had drawn in the lottery of the
caskets.
TIMON OF ATHENS
Four hundred years before the birth of Christ, a man lived in Athens
whose generosity was not only great, but absurd. He was very rich, but
no worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent and gave like Timon. If
anybody gave Timon a horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses.
If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered to repay it, Timon was
offended. If a poet had written a poem and Timon had time to read it, he
would be sure to buy it; and a painter had only to hold up his canvas in
front of Timon to receive double its market price.
Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his reckless mode of life.
When Timon's house was full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costly
wine, Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would say to himself,
“There are ten thousand candles burning in this house, and each of those
singers braying in the concert-room costs a poor man's yearly income a
night;” and he would remember a terrible thing said by Apemantus, one of
his master's friends, “O what a number of men eat Timon, and Timon sees
them not!”
Of course, Timon was much praised.
A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that it was not quite perfect
till Timon wore it. “You mend the jewel by wearing it,” he said. Timon
gave the diamond to a lord called Sempronius, and the lord exclaimed,
“O, he's the very soul of bounty.” “Timon is infinitely dear to me,”
said another lord, called Lucullus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse;
and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet.
But when Apemantus had listened to some of them, he said, “I'm going to
knock out an honest Athenian's brains.”
“You will die for that,” said Timon.
“Then I shall die for doing nothing,” said Apemantus. And now you know
what a joke was like four hundred years before Christ.
This Apernantus was a frank despiser of mankind, but a healthy one,
because he was not unhappy. In this mixed world anyone with a number
of acquaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of men, but does not
shun them, and boasts that he is never deceived by their fine speeches,
and is inwardly cheerful and proud. Apemantus was a man like that.
Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became much worse than Apemantus,
after the dawning of a day which we call Quarter Day.
Quarter Day is the day when bills pour in. The grocer, the butcher, and
the baker are all thinking of their debtors on that day, and the wise
man has saved enough money to be ready for them. But Timon had not; and
he did not only owe money for food. He owed it for jewels and horses and
furniture; and, worst of all, he owed it to money-lenders, who expected
him to pay twice as much as he had borrowed.
Quarter Day is a day when promises to pay are scorned, and on that day
Timon was asked for a large sum of money. “Sell some land,” he said
to his steward. “You have no land,” was the reply. “Nonsense! I had a
hundred, thousand acres,” said Timon. “You could have spent the price of
the world if you had possessed it,” said Flavius.
“Borrow some then,” said Timon; “try Ventidius.” He thought of Ventidius
because he had once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a creditor of
this young man. Ventidius was now rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude.
But not for all; so much did he owe! Servants were despatched with
requests for loans of money to several friends:
One servant (Flaminius) went to Lucullus. When he was announced Lucullus
said, “A gift, I warrant. I dreamt of a silver jug and basin last
night.” Then, changing his tone, “How is that honorable, free-hearted,
perfect gentleman, your master, eh?”
“Well in health, sir,” replied Flaminius.
“And what have you got there under your cloak?” asked Lucullus,
jovially.
“Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box, which, on my master's behalf, I
beg you to fill with money, sir.”
“La! la! la!” said Lucullus, who could not pretend to mean, “Ha! ha!
ha!” “Your master's one fault is that he is too fond of giving parties.
I've warned him that it was expensive. Now, look here, Flaminius, you
know this is no time to lend money without security, so suppose you
act like a good boy and tell him that I was not at home. Here's three
solidares for yourself.”
“Back, wretched money,” cried Flaminius, “to him who worships you!”
Others of Timon's friends were tried and found stingy. Amongst them was
Sempronius.
“Hum,” he said to Timon's servant, “has he asked Ventidius? Ventidius is
beholden to him.”
“He refused.”
“Well, have you asked Lucullus?”
“He refused.”
“A poor compliment to apply to me last of all,” said Sempronius, in
affected anger. “If he had sent to me at first, I would gladly have lent
him money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend him any now.”
“Your lordship makes a good villain,” said the servant.
When Timon found that his friends were so mean, he took advantage of
a lull in his storm of creditors to invite Ventidius and Company to a
banquet. Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and Company, were not in
the least ashamed, and they assembled accordingly in Timon's house, and
said to one another that their princely host had been jesting with them.
“I had to put off an important engagement in order to come here,” said
Lucullus; “but who could refuse Timon?”
“It was a real grief to me to be without ready money when he asked for
some,” said Sempronius.
“The same here,” chimed in a third lord.
Timon now appeared, and his guests vied with one another in apologies
and compliments. Inwardly sneering, Timon was gracious to them all.
In the banqueting ball was a table resplendent with covered dishes.
Mouths watered. These summer-friends loved good food.
“Be seated, worthy friends,” said Timon. He then prayed aloud to the
gods of Greece. “Give each man enough,” he said, “for if you, who are
our gods, were to borrow of men they would cease to adore you. Let men
love the joint more than the host. Let every score of guests contain
twenty villains. Bless my friends as much as they have blessed me.
Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap!”
The hungry lords were too much surprised by this speech to resent it.
They thought Timon was unwell, and, although he had called them dogs,
they uncovered the dishes.
There was nothing in them but warm water.
“May you never see a better feast,” wished Timon “I wash off the
flatteries with which you plastered me and sprinkle you with your
villainy.” With these words he threw the water into his guests' faces,
and then he pelted them with the dishes. Having thus ended the banquet,
he went into an outhouse, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever.
His next dwelling was a cave near the sea.
Of all his friends, the only one who had not refused him aid was a
handsome soldier named Alcibiades, and he had not been asked because,
having quarreled with the Government of Athens, he had left that town.
The thought that Alcibiades might have proved a true friend did not
soften Timon's bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discern
the fact that good cannot be far from evil in this mixed world. He
determined to see nothing better in all mankind than the ingratitude of
Ventidius and the meanness of Lucullus.
He became a vegetarian, and talked pages to himself as he dug in the
earth for food.
One day, when he was digging for roots near the shore, his spade struck
gold. If he had been a wise man he would have enriched himself quickly,
and returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the sight of the gold
vein gave no joy but only scorn to Timon. “This yellow slave,” he said,
“will make and break religions. It will make black white and foul fair.
It will buy murder and bless the accursed.”
He was still ranting when Alcibiades, now an enemy of Athens, approached
with his soldiers and two beautiful women who cared for nothing but
pleasure.
Timon was so changed by his bad thoughts and rough life that Alcibiades
did not recognize him at first.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“A beast, as you are,” was the reply.
Alcibiades knew his voice, and offered him help and money. But Timon
would none of it, and began to insult the women. They, however, when
they found he had discovered a gold mine, cared not a jot for his
opinion of them, but said, “Give us some gold, good Timon. Have you
more?”
With further insults, Timon filled their aprons with gold ore.
“Farewell,” said Alcibiades, who deemed that Timon's wits were lost; and
then his disciplined soldiers left without profit the mine which could
have paid their wages, and marched towards Athens.
Timon continued to dig and curse, and affected great delight when he dug
up a root and discovered that it was not a grape.
Just then Apemantus appeared. “I am told that you imitate me,” said
Apemantus. “Only,” said Timon, “because you haven't a dog which I can
imitate.”
“You are revenging yourself on your friends by punishing yourself,” said
Apemantus. “That is very silly, for they live just as comfortably as
they ever did. I am sorry that a fool should imitate me.”
“If I were like you,” said Timon, “I should throw myself away.”
“You have done so,” sneered Apemantus. “Will the cold brook make you a
good morning drink, or an east wind warm your clothes as a valet would?”