The Merchant of Venice

To be honest, I don’t know why I’m so sad. I’m tired of it, and you say you’re tired of it too. But I have no idea how I got so depressed. And if I can’t figure out what’s making me depressed, I must not understand myself very well.

You’re worried about your ships. Your mind is out there getting tossed around on the ocean with them. But they’re fine. They’re like huge parade floats on the sea. They’re so big they look down on the smaller ships, which all have to bow and then get out of the way. Your ships fly like birds past those little boats.

Yes, believe me, if I had such risky business ventures in other countries, I’d be sad too. I’d worry about it every second. I’d constantly be tossing blades of grass into the air to find out which way the wind was blowing. I’d be peering over maps to figure out the best ports, piers, and waterways. Everything that made me worry about my ships would make me sad.

I’d get scared every time I blew on my soup to cool it, thinking of how a strong wind could wipe out my ships. Every time I glanced at the sand in an hourglass I’d imagine my ships wrecked on sandbars. I’d think of dangerous rocks every time I went to church and saw the stones it was made of. If my ship brushed up against rocks like that, its whole cargo of spices would be dumped into the sea. All of its silk shipments would be sent flying into the roaring waters. In one moment I’d go bankrupt. Who wouldn’t get sad thinking about things like that? It’s obvious. Antonio is sad because he’s so worried about his cargo.

No, that’s not it, trust me. Thankfully my financial situation is healthy. I don’t have all of my money invested in one ship, or one part of the world. If I don’t do well this year, I’ll still be okay. So it’s not my business that’s making me sad.

Well then, you must be in love.

Oh, give me a break.

You’re not in love either? Fine, let’s just say you’re sad because you’re not in a good mood. You know, it’d be just as easy for you to laugh and dance around and say you’re in a good mood. You could just say you’re not sad. Humans are so different. Some people will laugh at anything, and others are so grouchy they won’t even crack a smile when they hear something hysterically funny.

Here comes your cousin Bassanio. And Gratiano and Lorenzo too. Goodbye, then. We’ll leave you to talk to them. They’re better company.

I would’ve stayed to cheer you up, if your nobler friends hadn’t shown up.

You’re both very precious to me. But I understand. You need to leave to take care of your own business.

(to BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO) Good morning, gentlemen.

(to SALARINO and SOLANIO) Hello, friends. When are we going to have fun together again? Just name the time. We never see you anymore. Does it have to be that way?

Let us know when you want to get together. We’re available.

Bassanio, we’ll say goodbye for now, since you’ve found Antonio. But don’t forget, we’re meeting for dinner tonight.

Don’t worry, I’ll be there.

You don’t look well, Antonio. You’re taking things too seriously. People with too much invested in the world always get hurt. I’m telling you, you don’t look like yourself.

For me the world is just the world, Gratiano—a stage where every person has a part to play. I play a sad one.

Then I’ll play the happy fool and get laugh lines on my face. I’d rather overload my liver with wine than starve my heart by denying myself fun. Why should any living man sit still like a statue? Why should he sleep when he’s awake? Why should he get ulcers from being crabby all the time? I love you, and I’m telling you this because I care about you, Antonio—there are men who always look serious. Their faces never move or show any expression, like stagnant ponds covered with scum. They’re silent and stern, and they think they’re wise and deep, important and respectable. When they talk, they think everybody else should keep quiet, and that even dogs should stop barking. I know a lot of men like that, Antonio. The only reason they’re considered wise is because they don’t say anything. I’m sure if they ever opened their mouths, everyone would see what fools they are. I’ll talk to you more about this some other time. In the meantime, cheer up. Don’t go around looking so glum. That’s my opinion, but what do I know? I’m a fool.—Let’s go, Lorenzo.—Goodbye for now. I’ll finish my lecture after dinner.

All right, we’ll see you at dinnertime. I must be one of these silent so-called wise men Gratiano’s talking about, because he never lets me get a word in.

If you hang around me for two more years, you’ll forget the sound of your own voice. I won’t ever let you speak.

Goodbye. After that lecture of yours, I’ll start talking a lot.

Thank you. The only tongues that should be silent are ox-tongues on a dinner plate and those that belong to old maids.

Is he right?

Gratiano talks more nonsense than any other man in Venice. His point is always like a needle in a haystack—you look for it all day, and when you find it you realize it wasn’t worth the trouble.

So, who’s this girl, the one you said you were going to take a special trip for? You promised to tell me.

Antonio, you know how bad my finances have been lately. I’ve been living way beyond my means. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about having to cut back. I just want to be honorable and pay off the big debts that piled up when I was living the high life. I’m in debt to many people, and I owe most to you, Antonio—both money and gratitude. And because you care about me, I know you’ll let me tell you my plan to clear all my debts.

Please let me know your plan, Bassanio. As long as it’s honorable, you can be sure that I’ll let you use all my money and do everything I can to help you.

Back when I was a schoolboy, if I lost an arrow I would try to find it by shooting another arrow in the same direction, watching the second arrow more carefully than I had the first. By risking the second arrow, I’d often get both of them back. I’m telling you this story for a reason. I owe you a lot, and like a spoiled kid I’ve lost what I owe you. But if you’d be willing to shoot another arrow the same way you shot the first, I’ll watch your arrow more carefully this time. Either we’ll get back all the money I owe you, or else we’ll get back what you lend me this time, and I’ll just owe you what I already owe you.

You know me better than that. You’re wasting your breath. All of this talk means you have doubts about my friendship. That’s worse than if you bankrupted me. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Tell me.

There’s a girl in Belmont who’s inherited a huge amount of money, and she’s beautiful and—even better—she’s a good person. I think she likes me. Sometimes the expression on her face tells me she likes me. Her name is Portia. She’s as rich as that famous Roman heroine Portia, the daughter of Cato and wife of Brutus. Her wealth is world-famous. Famous and important men have come in from all over the world to try to marry her. The hair that hangs down on her forehead is like gold, calling every adventurer to Belmont like a gold rush. Antonio, if I only had enough money to hold my own against those suitors, I know I could win her!

You know right now all my money’s tied up in that cargo that’s still at sea. I can’t give you the cash you need because I don’t have it. But go ahead and charge things to me on credit, as much credit as I can get in Venice. I’ll use all my lines of credit to help you get to Belmont, to Portia. Go see who will lend money, and I’ll do the same. I’m sure I can get something either as a business loan, or as a personal favor.