A Motley Jest

PREFATORY NOTE

I A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY

An island in the Middle Seas. A cave is seen on the right and before it, under a palm tree, Caliban is discovered sleeping.

[Enter Trinculo and Stephano, quarreling.

Trinculo. Since the day when the old gentleman they call Prospero took it into his bald pate to disappear into air along with a most goodly company beside, there’s not a bottle to be found i’ this isle, as I am a good Christian, and, what is more, a good Christian man’s son.

Stephano. Bottle me no bottles, Trinculo. Had we ne’er shared a bottle betwixt us we had not been left to bide by ourselves in this whoreson isle in the hard service of the man-monster, Caliban, but might be in fair Naples at this very hour.

Trinculo. Sagely said, Master Stephano. Thou wast ever wise enow i’ the tail o’ the event. An’ thou could’st have looked it thus wisely i’ the mouth, thou hadst been a made man, Stephano, a made man, and a householder, to boot.

Stephano. By mine head, a scurvy trick o’ the King to give us over to a dog’s life in this heathen isle with a man-monster for a master, and none other company beside.

Trinculo. More wisdom from that mouth of thine, most sage Stephano. Thou art indeed become a second Socrates for sober conclusions.

Caliban [awaking] What, Trinculo! Get me some food, I say, or thy bones shall pay thy jape. Get thee hence at once, for a mighty hunger is come upon me and I would eat. [To Stephano] Sing thou, and caper nimbly the while.

Stephano [sings and dances clumsily]

Ariel [invisible] sings.

Stephano. What is this same that sings i’ the air without lips or body?

Trinculo [returning with food which he places before Caliban] Master Nobody is at his ancient tricks. An’ he be a devil, he hath an angel’s voice.

Caliban. Retire ye both, for I would be alone.

[Exeunt Trinculo and Stephano.

Ariel plays softly on a tabor, scatters poppy
leaves and departs, leaving Caliban asleep.

Scene II.

A room in the palace at Naples.

[Enter Ferdinand and Miranda.

[sleeps.

[sleeps.

Scene III.

The island in the Middle Seas.

Ferdinand and Miranda discovered sleeping on
a grassy mound. Soft music heard.

[Caliban approaches, groveling

[Trinculo and Stephano approach.

Trinculo. Behold us, gentles, two as unhappy wights as ever ’scaped a hanging, or death by attorney.

Stephano. He speaks very true, as ’t were, now and then, and we two honest men from Naples be now in most wretched case—slaves to the man-monster, Caliban.

Scene IV.

Another part of the same.

[Enter Prospero.

[Exit.

Scene V.

Another part of the same.

A grassy space shaded by palms, before a cave at whose entrance Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered playing chess.

[Enter Nurse and Peter.

Nurse. Peter!

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Take my cloak, Peter. Truly the sun’s heat hath made me all of a quiver, as they say. Marry I would e’en taste a little food before I go a step more. I’ll warrant you we are many a mile from Verona by this.

Peter. A good mile, I take it, for I was never in this place before that I wot of.

Nurse. Say’st thou so, Peter?

Peter. Marry, that do I, and will answer to ’t before any of womankind, and any of mankind too, that be less lusty than I.

Nurse. Peter!

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Some food, Peter, and presently.

Peter. Here be strange fruits whose use I know not. A serving man of the young county Paris’s did to my knowing eat an apple that was brought from afar in a ship’s stomach, being a lusty youth and tall and much given to victual, and he did swell to bursting and died thereof while one might count thirteen by the clock. He made a fearsome dead body, as the saying is.

Nurse. Peter.

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Thou shalt taste these fruits for me singly and in order, good Peter, and if no such harm come to thee as thou pratest of, then will I eat likewise.

Peter. Nay, but nurse, good nurse, good lady nurse—

Nurse. Hold thy peace, thou scurvy knave. Would’st suffer me to go nigh to death for lack of food and thou stand by the while like a jack o’ the clock when his hour has struck? Out upon thee, and do my pleasure quickly.

[Enter Mercutio and Romeo.

Mercutio. Here’s fine matter toward. Thy Juliet’s nurse, and her man Peter, quarrelling.

Nurse. God ye good den, gentlemen.

Mercutio. God ye good morrow, most ancient, and most fair ancient lady. Thy five wits, meseems, are gone far astray the whiles.

Nurse. Is it but good morrow? I had sworn ’twere long past noon, but, indeed, in this strange place, as one may say, there’s no telling so simple a circumstance as the time of day.

Romeo. Many things there be of which there’s no telling, such as the number of times a maid will say no, when her mind is to say yes; how many days the wind will sit i’ the east when one would desire fair weather; and how many years the toothless grandsire will wither out a young man’s revenue.

Nurse. That is all very wisely said, good sir. Are you that he they call the young Romeo?

Mercutio. He is rightly called Romeo, but as for his youth, if knavery be not left out of the count, why then was Methusaleh a very babe to him, a suckling babe.

Nurse. Say you so? Then will I tell my lady Juliet so much, an’ I can come by her in this heathen place.

Mercutio. Most ancient lady, yon Romeo would deceive the devil himself.

Nurse. Beshrew my heart. Then were my young mistress (who, to be sure, is no kind of a devil at all, saving your presences), led straight to a fool’s paradise. She shall know, and presently, what a piece of man he is.

[Enter Ophelia, strewing flowers.

Romeo. She makes as if to speak to us, poor soul.

Ophelia. This is All Hallow Eve. They say to-night each Jill may see her Jack that is to come. But these be idle tales to juggle us poor maids, withal, for I no Jack have found. Cophetua, they say, was a king who was wed to a beggar maid; a pretty tale is’t not? But there’s no truth in’t; there be no such happenings now, for my love was a prince indeed, but we were never wed, and now he is gone. [Weeps] He was a goodly youth to look on, but he is dead by this and burns in hell. [Sings]

I cry your pardon, good people all. But there’s something lost, I think, and ’twill not be found for all my searching.

[Enter Hamlet.

Hamlet. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do you not know me?

Ophelia. No, forsooth; I did never see you before, and yet methinks your eye hath a trick of Prince Hamlet’s in it. But that’s all one, for the Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in hell for cozening us poor maids. [Sings]

[Enter Constance, with hair unbound.

Ophelia. I do not know you, but you weep and so do I, and surely that doth make us sisters in grief, and so because of that I’ll follow you whither you list, and you will let me.

Ophelia. Sad lady, I will go with you, weep when you weep, and be your humble pensioner in grief.

Ophelia. Love? I know what that doth signify. Is not love what we poor maids are fool’d with? Thus have they told me, and therefore I’ll not listen to you, for indeed I never saw you before, that I remember, and yet there’s something not so strange lurks within your speech. But go your ways, sweet sir. My Hamlet he is dead, and so I care for none of mankind now. [Sings]

He is dead, perdy.

[Exeunt Constance and Ophelia.

[Sad music heard]

[Exit Hamlet slowly.

Enter Launce leading a dog.

Launce. What a very dog is this my Crab here for a stony-hearted cur! Why but now there met us two distressed females weeping their hearts out at their eyes, and sighing, moreover, as ’twould move a very Turk to pity, and yet this cur took no more note on ’t than they had been two sticks or stones. Why, the Woman of Samaria would have plucked out her hair in pity of the twain, nay, so would I have done the same in her stead,—yet what say I, for there’s not so much hair on my head as my mother’s brass kettle has of its cover. A vengeance on ’t, now where was I? O, truly, I was e’en at the Woman of Samaria. Now, good sirs, and gentles all, the Woman of Samaria had for ruth plucked out her hair, but did not my dog Crab, who by your leaves is as hairy a dog as goes on one-and-twenty toes, shed even one hair in sorrow for the twain: not e’en the smallest hair on ’s nose. And the matter of the meeting was on this wise. This small stone, with the crack in ’t, is the maid, she with the flowers; and I think there be a crack in her wits, but no matter for that; this stone, a something bigger, ay, and with a crack in ’t, too, shall be the lady with her hair all unbound; this tree shall be the dog; nay, that’s not so neither, for I am the tree and the tree is me, and this stick is the dog, and thus it is. Now doth the small stone weep as ’twere a fountain gone astray, and may not speak for weeping; now doth the something bigger stone weep too, yet with a difference, and she doth not speak for weeping either, and truly I did weep likewise and no more could speak for my weeping than the poor distressed females might, yet there came all the while no word of comfort from this dog’s mouth, not even one tear from his lids. Pray God, gentles all, there be no such hard hearts among any of you, or ’twere ten thousand pities. ’Tis an ill thing to have a sour nature like my dog Crab’s, and no good comes on ’t.

Nurse. Beshrew my heart, and that is so. My Mistress Juliet hath the tenderest and the most pitiful heart that lives in a maid’s body, I do think, for she will weep by the hour together if she but behold a fly caught by the wings in a spider’s web.

Mercutio [to Romeo] No, Juliet, but a Niobe. Eh, man?

[Enter Falstaff.

Falstaff. This were a goodly place enow, and there were sack to be had.

Trinculo [aside] The fat fellow is verily in the right on’t, but since the old gentleman Prospero did give us here the sack there’s no sack here for the wishing.

Falstaff [calls] Francis.

Trinculo. I think there be none here by that name.

Falstaff. ’Tis no matter for the name; the play ’s the thing, the name is mere hollowness and sound. Here, you fellow with the dog, you whoreson shaveling of a man, what is thy name?

Launce. They call me Launce, an’ it doth please you, sir.

Falstaff. How if I do not please? Marry, and what is then thy name? Answer to that.

Launce. I could never i’ the world tell that, sir, and no more, indeed, sir, could my dog Crab that’s here, who, saving your presence, is the most hard-hearted cur alive.

Falstaff. No exceptions, good Launce; exceptions are the devil’s counters, therefore, beware of exceptions. But hark you, good man Launce. Fetch me here some sack, and let it o’erflow the tankard, too, for I’ve a thirst upon me such as Hercules came most honestly by after his twelve labours.

Launce. Please you, sir, I do not know the meanings of sack and Hercules. I did never see either of the gentlemen you speak of.

Falstaff. ’Tis no matter for Hercules, but, God’s pity for ’t, to be unacquainted with sack is to have lived as a dead man liveth. Sack, good Launce, is the prince of roystering blades; the pearl of price; the nonpareil of the world, the—nay, there’s no fit comparison to be made. Ambrosia and nectar together were but ashes i’ the mouth to ’t.

Trinculo [coming forward] You speak nothing aside the matter, sir, as I’m a true man. There’s nought to be named i’ the world before sack, and herein, of all places i’ the world, there’s no inn, no sack, no sack within. So you’ll e’en have to stomach that, though you’ve small stomach to’t.

Falstaff. Small stomach, say you? An’ you denominate this belly of mine a small stomach, there’s no truth in your tongue.

Trinculo. And no sack in your stomach, either.

Launce. These be as fine words as ever I heard.

Falstaff. Now, Sir Shaveling, and who bade you to speak?

Launce. None, sir. I speak but when I have a mind, sir, and I am silent when I have a mind, likewise.

Falstaff. Have a mind to silence and let bigger men speak for you.

Launce. Then I can tell who will do all the tongue-wagging, sir, for I spy none here that is bigger i’ the girth than yourself.

Falstaff. As for the girth, Shaveling, that cometh of sack.

Trinculo. And pillage of the larder, too, or I’m no true woman’s son.

Falstaff. No inn within this heathen isle, no sack within the inn! Is this a fit place to bring a good Christian knight? ’Twere enough to make a man of my sanguine and fiery composition turn Muscovite on the instant, for your Muscovite, as I take it, is a most ungodly knave, and an infidel to boot, and without a moderate deal of sack, such as is needful for a man of my kidney, how is Christendom to be kept on its legs? What gives the justice discretion? Why, sack! What gives the lover whereby to gain the hand of his mistress? Why, sack! What gives the young man a merry heart and the old man a sanguine favour? Why, sack! What gives the soldier courage in the day of battle? Why, sack! Marry, then, he that hath his bellyful of sack hath discretion, courage, a ruddy visage, a merry heart and a nimble tongue.

Launce [aside] The discretion that cometh with what he calls sack is e’en but a scurvy kind of discretion, to my thinking, for all of the stout gentleman’s saying. Here’s Crab, my dog, and he be not so niggard of his tongue, could tell so much as that comes to, on any day i’ the week.

Falstaff. What be these folk that forswear sack? Why, lean anatomies with not so much blood in their bodies as would suffice for a flea’s breakfast. The skin hangs upon their bones for all the world like a loose garment. You may feel the wind blow through their bodies. ’Twere a simple abuse of terms to call such starvelings men: your poor forked radish would become the name better.

[Exeunt Falstaff, Launce, Mercutio,
Romeo, Nurse and Peter by twos. A
mist arises, and after a little vanishes.

Trinculo. A murrain light on all unsociable folk. They might have bidden us to be of their company, methinks.

Stephano. Why, man, these are but ghosts come from nowhere. By the bones of my dead grandsire, I’ve small mind to turn myself into a ghost even thereby to leave this isle and Caliban’s hard service. But, look you, Prospero’s daughter and her prince are stayed behind; an’ they be not ghosts of the same feather I marvel where they have bestowed themselves on this isle since Prospero forsook it.

Stephano runs away, crying out loudly the while.

[Enter the Fool and Lear.

Fool. Good nuncle, here be Christian folk; let’s bide. The night cometh when a rotten thatch, even, is a more comfortable blanket than a skyful of little stars.

Lear [pointing to Miranda] What, in Goneril’s palace? Did she not with her own hands push her old father out of door? [To Miranda] Nay, mistress daughter; I’ll not bide with you. A million murrains light upon thy unnatural head; ten million plagues burn in thy blood; a million pains lurk in thy wretched bones, thou piece of painted earth whom ’twere foul shame to call a woman.

Fool. Good nuncle, methinks the sun hath made of thee a very owl, for she whom thou callest upon so loudly is not so eld by twenty summers as thy daughter Goneril.

Lear. ’Tis no matter for that. She is a woman and the daughter of a woman, therefore she will spin foul lies for her pleasure and bid her father out of sight when he is old.

Fool. Fathers that give away all their substance ere they be dead and rotten are like to see strange things come to pass. An’ thy bald crown had been worthy thy golden one it had worn thy golden one still and thou wert warm in thy palace.

Lear. This daughter! O this daughter, Goneril.

Enter King Richard II.

Fool. Lo! here’s another wight that has given away his crown. [To Richard] Art thou a king, too?

King Richard. I am, and England was my sovereignty.

Fool. Then thou liest abominably, for a king that lacks wit to keep his crown on ’s head is no king, and that’s a true saying.

Fool. Then have we here a pair of kings lacking both crowns and kingdoms to wear ’em in. These be but evil times for kings or fools either; and to my thinking there’s not so great a difference betwixt a fool and a king, save that the fool may chance be the wiser man of the two. Of a surety there was little wit a going begging when these twain put their golden crowns from off their simple skulls. Though I’m but a fool, and no wise man, I were but a fool indeed were I to change places with a king.

Enter King Henry VI.

Fool. What do I say of kings? Marry, I say they were best to watch well their daughters and their kingdoms; it needs no fool to say so much as that. Prithee, art thou a king of the same mould as these thou beholdest here in this place?

Fool. Truly, thou serv’st a tender apprenticeship to thy business and I marvel the less at thy present having. [To Lear] Good nuncle, here’s yet another king out at the elbows, one, belike, that shook his rattle as ’t were a sceptre, and wore his porringer on ’s head where his crown should have been.

[Exit raving.

Fool. Farewell to you both, for I must after him that’s such an eager spendthrift of his curses, and may each of you come upon a kingdom to your mind—when the sun shall smite in January.

[Exit Fool.

[Soft music heard.

[Sleeps.

[Exit King Henry.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.

A glade in another part of the island with Ferdinand and Miranda observed seated at the upper end thereof. Nearer at hand a group of Athenian citizens. Enter Bottom, wearing an ass’s head.

Bottom. Masters, you will marvel to behold me here, but the very truth of the matter is that I did fall asleep, and being asleep I did dream, and as I did lie a-dreaming I was in a manner translated to this place, which methinks is an island, for I did espy much water anear as I was brought hither. But, masters, I do marvel much to look upon you here also.

Francis Flute. Methinks, friend Bottom, you are not the sole wight in Athens esteemed worthy translation.

Robin Starveling. How an’ we be not translated either?

Peter Quince. Robin Starveling speaks well and to the centre of the matter. Know then, good bully Bottom, we are translated as yourself, but methinks you have lost more in the translating than have we; is’t not e’en so, masters all?

All. Right, good Peter Quince.

Bottom. I have lost nothing that should cause you envy, good friends all, and so I assure you. [Brays loudly] What say you then to my voice? Is my voice perished?

Tom Snout. No, Nick Bottom.

Bottom. I thank you, good Tom Snout, and to show you that I am the same Nick Bottom, however my visage may appear altered, for travel doth greatly age a man, as they say, you shall hear me wake the echoes once again.

[Brays a second time, more loudly.

Quince. Methinks your voice, good Bottom, has lost somewhat of sweetness.

Bottom. That’s all one, good Peter Quince, for the simple truth of the matter is that you have no such delicate ear for fine harmonies as I am endow’d with.

[Strokes his ears.

Quince. It doth seem so on more properer consideration, and I had an ear that were the parallax of yours ’twere pity of my life.

All. Indeed, an’ ’twere but pity of your life, Peter Quince.

Bottom. How say you, masters, shall not we spread ourselves? [All sit down.

Bottom. Since it is conceded by all of you that I have lost nothing by translation, doth it not follow, moreover, that I have somewhat gained by that same adventure?

Flute. In good truth you have gained by somewhat, Nick Bottom.

Bottom. I were an ass, indeed, an’ I had not.

Snug. And twice an ass, moreover, should he be that would go about to steal it from you.

Bottom. Methinks that I could munch a savoury salad of thistles with much stomach to’t.

Quince. Your thistles be a thought too biting for my stomach.

Bottom. ’Tis but likely. I was ever a choice feeder. But, masters, was there not some matter toward, or have you assembled yourselves but to greet me, and, as ’twere, fittingly?

Quince. You speak quite to the matter, good Bottom. That is indeed the true end of our beginning. To behold your winsome visage in this unwonted place is great joy to us simple mechanicals, yet we be nevertheless bold to proclaim to you that to shave were not amiss to one of your condition. For but bethink you, and you were to come amongst ladies thus grievously beset with hair would shame us all.

Snug. Mayhap in this strange part of the world ’twould be thought matter for a hanging, and that were, indeed, a most serious business, to my thinking.

Quince. But an’ we talk of ladies and hangings, moreover, hither comes a monstrous little lady, as ’twere on the instant.

Enter Titania, with her train.

[Winds her arms about his neck.

Bottom. Good mistress atomy, though you show somewhat spare of flesh you are yet of a right comely countenance (and mine eyes do tell me aught without spectacles), and you can speak to the point upon occasion, as the present moment doth signify most auspiciously.

Bottom. How say you, masters? Hath not mistress atomy a shrewd manner of observation an’ she singles me out from the company of my fellows thus compellingly?

Quince. O bully Bottom, you are, as I take it, the simple wonder of our age.

All. Right, master Quince. Nick Bottom is become a very marvel.

Bottom [sings]

[Exeunt Titania and Bottom, attended by train.

Quince. Were this but told in Athens, now, ’twere not believed by aught, but we accredited liars all of the first water, and so esteemed.

All. ’Twere indeed but so, and truly, Peter Quince.

Quince. Therefore I hold that (an’ we once more come by our own firesides in Athens), we were best make no words of the happenings we have beheld but now, lest we be cried upon in the public streets as those that be counted no true men.

All. That were to shame us, every mother’s son.

Quince. Why you speak the very gizzard of the matter, my masters all, and we will be silent in such wise as I did perpetuate, and as for Nick Bottom, let his goblin mistress do with him as she listeth, for methinks we are well rid of his company, being, for ourselves, nothing loose-minded but sober, virtuous citizens all.

All. That are we, Peter Quince, and we thank God for’t.

Enter Puck, unperceived, who tweaks Quince
violently by the nose and exits.

Quince. O masters, which of you—

Is suddenly twitched aside by Puck. Re-enters
with a lion’s head on his shoulders.

All. God defends us, Peter Quince.

Quince. Masters, it ill becomes you as sober citizens of Athens to treat one of yourselves thus unseemly. Am not I a simple workman like the rest of you? Is it not my very own voice that you hear but now?  [Roars.

All. God for his mercy.

[Exeunt all but Quince.

Quince. These be strange manners; an’ I were a very lion, though being of a truth of a most lamblike perdition, they could not have fled from me with greater speeding. I will e’en after them to taste the reason of their knavery.

Enter Puck.

[Exit Puck.

Re-enter Quince.

Quince. And I can spy but one of my neighbours in this predestinated place I’ll be hanged.

Re-enter Starveling, with an owl’s head.

Quince. Bless us, Robin Starveling, what wizardry do I spy in you?

Starveling. Wizardry, an’ you call it, Peter Quince? Look to your own head an’ you would find out wizardry. There’s naught strange in me.

Re-enter Snug, with a bear’s head.

Quince and Starveling. Save us, good Snug, how art thou transmogrified!

Snug. Not so, neither, neighbours both. I am but Snug the joiner, as you might behold him of any working day, but you twain, methinks, are most marvellously encountered.

Quince and Starveling. Speak for yourself, Master Snug: we are the same as you have known us ever.

Quince. That is, I am the same, but Master Starveling is quite other than the simple man he was.

Starveling. Thou liest, Peter Quince. I am but plain Robin Starveling, but you are become a very monster.

Re-enter Snout, with a deer’s head and horns.

Quince. Good masters three, you are enchanted, and pity o’ my life it is. ’Tis I alone that doth remain as much mankind as I was ever.

Snout. An’ you count yourself the proper likeness of a man you are most horribly mistook, and so it is, Peter Quince.

Re-enter Flute, with the head of a crocodile.

Flute. O neighbours all, what behold I here? What sorcerer has thus exorcised upon you? O could you be spy upon yourselves to know how unlike you are to plain citizens like me.

Quince. A plain man, say you. Forsooth, yours is a very fearful manner of plainness, Francis Flute. But look at me, masters all, and you would gaze upon a plain man.

Starveling. Nay, look on me, in his stead.

Snout. Not so, but on me.

Snug. These be liars, every mother’s son. Look upon me, I say, Francis Flute.

Flute. Masters, hear but the simple truth. You are all of you deceived and have suffered most horrible enchantment, every mother’s son of you but me. Heaven help you, neighbours, and undo the spell that each and every one may become as I am.

[Gnashes his jaws fearfully.

All. That were most dire affliction of any that be in the varsal world, Francis Flute.

Flute. And you were not something other than simple mankind I could try conclusions with you that speak thus enviously. Indeed, I am something that way toward, but now.

[Exeunt Omnes, fighting.

Enter Puck.

[Exit Puck.

Enter Jaques, laughing.

[Exit Jaques.

Soft music heard, followed by a dance of elves.

[Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda.

Scene VII.

Still another part of the island.

Enter Prospero.

[Exit Ariel.

Thunder heard and Prospero vanishes.

Scene VIII.

A room in the palace at Naples.

[Enter Ferdinand and Miranda.

Soft music again heard.

[Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda.

II THE MERCHANT OF VENICE: ACT SIXTH

Enter Shylock, followed by a rabble of shouting citizens.

[Beats Shylock.

[Exit Shylock, raving.

[Exeunt citizens, with shouts.

Scene II.

Venice. A Room, in Shylock’s House.

[Enter Shylock and Tubal.

Tubal. How now, Shylock! What bitter woe looks from thy face? What has chanced to thee in the Christian’s court to make thee thus distraught?

Shylock. O Tubal, Tubal, there dwells no more pity in the Christian breast than there abides justice therein. I stood for justice and mine own, before them all; before that smiling, smooth-faced judge from Padua, and with those false smiles of his he turned against me the sharp edge of the law. He forbade the shedding of one drop of the merchant Antonio’s blood—naming therefor some ancient law, musty for centuries, and that still had gathered dust till it would serve to bait the Jew with—and so I lost my revenge upon Antonio. More than that, good Tubal, I lost everything I had to lose.

Tubal. Lost everything! Now, by our ancient prophets, this is woe indeed.

Shylock. Aye, good Tubal. The half my goods are now adjudged Antonio’s; the other half, upon my death, goes to the knave, Lorenzo; that same he that lately stole my ducats and my daughter.

Tubal. And merry havoc will he and thy daughter Jessica make of thy treasure, Shylock.

Shylock. But there is greater woe to come, good Tubal. To save this poor remainder of a life have I this day sworn to turn a Christian.

Tubal. Thou, turn Christian! O monstrous deed! Our synagogue will be put to everlasting shame for this. Nay, good Shylock, it must not be. It must not be.

Shylock. Have I not said that I am sworn on pain of life? They would e’en have had my life almost in the open court had I not so sworn. But hear me, Tubal; I will not die till that I have bethought me of some secret, sure revenge upon Antonio, or failing this, upon the taunting, sneering fool they call Gratiano, whom I do loathe e’en as I loathe Antonio. Moreover I would gladly do some deadly hurt unto the accursed Paduan judge, an’ it might be so.

Tubal. Then wilt thou still be Hebrew at the heart, good Shylock?

Shylock. How else while yet I bear remembrance of my wrongs? Have not many of our chosen people done this selfsame thing for ducats or for life? Kissed the cross before men’s eyes, but spurned it behind their backs? As I shall do, erewhile. But, O good Tubal, the apples of Sodom were as sweet morsels in the mouth unto this that I must do.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

Venice. Interior of Saint Mark’s.

Organ music heard. Enter a company of noble Venetians with the Duke and his train, accompanied by Bassanio, Portia, Antonio, Gratiano, Nerissa and others. Following these, at a little distance, appear Lorenzo and Jessica, the latter gorgeously attired. The company pauses before the font. Shylock enters from the left, led forward by a priest. His gaberdine has been exchanged for the Christian habit, and in his hand is placed a crucifix.

Solemn music heard, after which Shylock is baptized by the priest, Antonio at the command of the Duke standing godfather to the Jew, who makes the required responses in a low voice. While he is still kneeling the company converse in an undertone.

[Exeunt Duke and train with Antonio and
friends. Lorenzo and Jessica come forward.

Jessica. How now, good father Cristofero; what a pair of Christians are we both. Only there’s this difference betwixt us, good father. I am a Christian for love of a husband and you have turned a Christian for love of your ducats.

Shylock. Ungrateful daughter; Why did’st thou go forth from my house by night and rob thy grey-haired father of his treasure?

Jessica. Why? That’s most easy of answer. Why, because I desired a Christian husband and there was no coming by my desire save by secret flight from your most gloomy chambers; and since neither my Christian husband nor your daughter Jessica could by any kind of contriving live upon air alone, we had, perforce, to take with us some of your ducats for the bettering our condition. Speak thou for me, Lorenzo. Was it not e’en so?

Lorenzo. Old man, I am sorry for that I was forced to take from you your daughter and your ducats against your good pleasure, but I must tell you that I loved her as myself [Aside] nay, much more, my Jessica,—and by reason of this great love of mine, and because of your exceeding hatred towards all Christians did I take her from your house. And since, moreover, as the maid very truly says, there’s no living i’ the world without the means to live, because of this did we make shift to take with us from your house such means, as well advised you would not have your daughter lack for food and suitable apparel, and since we are now Christians all, what matters it?

Shylock [slowly] Ay, what matters it? We are now Christians all, as thou sayest, and, I remember me that I have heard it said it is a Christian’s duty to forgive all who have wronged him. Therefore I forgive you, Jessica—for robbing your old father; and you, Lorenzo, I forgive—for stealing my daughter. You are each well mated. But I would be alone a while. Go, good Jessica. Go, son Lorenzo.

[Exeunt Lorenzo and Jessica.

[Gazes about the church.

[Choir heard chanting in a distant chapel.
[Rises from his knees.

[Choir heard chanting Judica me Deus.

[Choir in the distance, responding Amen.

[Exit Shylock.

NOTE BY WILLIAM J. ROLFE, Litt.D.

It is a tribute of no slight significance to Shakespeare’s skill in the delineation of character that we instinctively regard the personages in his mimic world as real men and women, and are not satisfied to think of them only as they appear on the stage. We like to follow them after they have left the scene, and to speculate concerning their subsequent history. The commentators on Much Ado, for instance, are not willing to dismiss Benedick and Beatrice when the play closes without discussing the question whether they probably “lived happily ever after.” Some, like Mrs. Jameson and the poet Campbell, have their misgivings about the future of the pair, fearing that “poor Benedick” will not escape the “predestinate scratched face” which he himself had predicted for the man who should woo and win that “infernal Até in good apparel,” as he called her; while others, like Verplanck, Charles Cowden-Clarke, Furnivall, and Gervinus, believe that their married life will be of “the brightest and sunniest.”

Some have gone back of the beginning of the plays, like Mrs. Cowden-Clarke in her Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Heroines, and Lady Martin (Helena Faucit) in her paper on Ophelia in Some of Shakespeare’s Female Characters.

Others, like Mr. Adams, have made the experiment of continuing a play of Shakespeare in dramatic form. Ernest Renan, in France, and Mr. C. P. Cranch, in this country, have both done this in the case of The Tempest, mainly with the view of following out the possible adventures of Caliban after Prospero had left him to his own devices.

These and similar sequels to the plays are nowise meant as attempts to “improve” Shakespeare (like Nahum Tate’s version of Lear, that held the stage for a hundred and sixty years) and sundry other perversions of the plays in the eighteenth century, which have damned their presumptuous authors to everlasting infamy. They are what Renan, in his preface, calls his Caliban,—“an idealist’s fancy sketch, a simple fantasy of the imagination.”

Mr. Adams’s Sixth Act of The Merchant of Venice is an experiment of the same kind; not, as certain captious critics have regarded it, a foolhardy attempt to rival Shakespeare. It was originally written for an evening entertainment of the “Old Cambridge Shakespeare Association.” No one in that cultivated company misunderstood the author’s aim, and all heartily enjoyed it. I believe that it will give no less pleasure to the larger audience to whom it is now presented in print.

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