“Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice!”
there is a hypocritical earnestness, as if he were giving his reason privately to the counsel, though there is a strange, indescribable sneer conveyed in that “not for Venice.” Then the compliment to Portia, “How much more elder art thou than thy looks!” which he utters, crouching low, with a smiling, even leering, admiration, but admiration given for what is on his own side. And what follows opens a most natural piece of business, arising out of the sort of confidential intimacy which he would establish between them—
“Ay, his breast,
So says the bond;—Doth it not, noble judge?
Nearest his heart, those are the very words”;
the latter words pronounced with canine ferocity, his eyes straining over the other’s shoulders, while he points with his knife—secure, too, that the other will agree with him. He fancies that he has brought over the counsel to his side. And it may be added that this knife is not flourished in the butcher’s style we are accustomed to; it is more delicately treated, as though something surgical were contemplated. When bidden to “have by some surgeon,” nothing could be better than the sham curiosity with which he affects to search the bond for such a proviso, letting his knife travel down the lines, and the tone of “I cannot find it,” in a cold, helpless way, as if he had looked out of courtesy to his “young Judge,” who appeared to be on his side. The latter at last declares that there is no alternative, but that Antonio must yield his bosom to the knife; then the Jew’s impatience seems to override his courtesies, his gloating eyes never turn from his victim, and with greedy ferocity he advances suddenly with “Come, prepare!” When, however, Portia makes her “point” about the “drop of blood,” he drops his scales with a start; and, Gratiano taunting him, his eyes turn with a dazed look from one to the other; he says slowly, “Is—that—the—law?” Checked more and more in his reluctant offers, he at last bursts out with a demoniac snarl—“Why, then, the devil give him good of it!” Finally he turns to leave, tottering away bewildered and utterly broken. As may be imagined, the new Shylock excited a vast deal of controversy. The “old school” was scornful; and here again it would have been worth hearing the worthy Jack Ryder—whom we still must take to be the type of the good old past—on the subject.
Nothing was more remarkable than the general effect of this fine and thoughtful representation upon the public. It was a distinct education, too, and set everyone discussing and reading. Admittedly one result was the great increase in the sale of editions of Shakespeare’s works; and the ephemeral literature engendered in the shape of articles, criticisms, and illustrations of all kinds was truly extraordinary. Here again was heard the harsh note of the jealous and the envious. There was plenty of fair and honest dissent as to the interpretation of the play, with some reasonably argued protests against the over-abundant decoration.
The hundredth night of the run of this prodigiously successful revival was celebrated in hospitable fashion by a supper, to which all that was artistic, literary, and fashionable—tout Londres in short—was bidden. The night was Saturday, February 14, 1880, the hour half-past eleven. As soon as the piece was terminated a wonderful tour de force was accomplished. In an incredibly short space of time—some forty minutes, I believe—an enormous marquee, striped red and white, that enclosed the whole of the stage, was set up; the tables were arranged and spread with “all the luxuries of the season” with magic rapidity. An enjoyable night followed. The host’s health was given by that accomplished man, and man of elegant tastes, Lord Houghton, in what was thought a curiously mal à propos speech. After conventional eulogiums, he could not resist some half-sarcastic remarks as to “this new method of adorning Shakespeare.” He condemned the system of long “runs,” which he contrasted with that of his youth, when pieces were given not oftener than once or twice in the week. He then praised the improvement in the manners of the profession, “so that the tradition of good breeding and high conduct was not confined to special families like the Kembles, or to special individuals like Mr. Irving himself, but was spread over the profession, so that families of condition were ready to allow their children to go on the stage. We put our sons and daughters into it.” I recall now the genuine indignation and roughly-expressed sentiments of some leading performers and critics who were sitting near me at this very awkward compliment. He then proceeded to speak of the new impersonation, describing how he had seen a Shylock, formerly considered a ferocious monster, but who had, under their host’s treatment, become a “gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, in voice very like a Rothschild, afflicted with a stupid servant and wilful and pernicious daughter, to be eventually foiled by a very charming woman. But there was one character Mr. Irving would never pervert or misrepresent, and that was his own,” etc.
Never was the power and good-humour—the bonhomie—of the manager more happily displayed than in his reply. As was said at the time, it showed him in quite a new light. Taken wholly unawares—for whatever preparation he might have made was, he said, “rendered useless by the unexpected tone of Lord Houghton’s remarks”-he was thrown on his impromptu resources, and proved that he really possessed what is called debating power. He spoke without hesitation, and with much good sense and playful humour put aside these blended compliments and sarcasms.