“To bait fish withal,” said Shylock, with a snarl like a tiger. “If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He has disgraced me and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies: and what’s his reason? I am a Jew!... Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you also in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.”
And Shylock’s resolution was like rock—nothing could shake it. When the bond fell due, and Antonio failed to meet it, Shylock had him arrested, and insisted on the case being brought to trial before the Duke of Venice. No arguments could move him, no appeals for mercy—not even the offer of the money, if Antonio could have got it.
“I’ll have no speaking; I will have my bond,” was his only answer.
The Venetian gentleman with whom Jessica had fled to get married—Lorenzo—was a friend of Antonio and Bassanio. The young husband and wife in their flight happened to come across another friend of theirs who was conveying the news of Antonio’s disaster to Bassanio, and at his request Lorenzo and Jessica went with him to Belmont. They reached the house at the very moment when everyone was in the full tide of joy after the successful choosing of the casket. Portia made them welcome, and Salerio handed a letter to Bassanio. The latter turned so pale on reading it that Portia guessed something terrible must have happened. She claimed her right as promised wife to share in all that concerned Bassanio, and he told her without hesitation how matters stood.
“Is it your dear friend who is thus in trouble?” asked Portia, when she had heard the account of Antonio’s troubles, and how it was for Bassanio’s sake he had run such a risk.
“The dearest friend to me, the kindest man!” answered Bassanio, “the most unwearied in doing courtesies, and the most unsullied in honour.”
“What sum does he owe the Jew?”
“For me, three thousand ducats.”
“What! no more? Pay him six thousand and cancel the bond. Double six thousand, and then treble that, before such a friend shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault!” exclaimed Portia. “First go with me to church and call me wife, then hasten to Venice, to your friend. You shall have gold to pay the debt twenty times over.... But let me hear the letter of your friend.”
“Sweet Bassanio,” ran the letter, “my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared between you and me if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.”