Michael:

I’m struck by how business-like, but also light and amusing, the first two scenes are. As in all comedies we start with problems, things wrong, and right away with Antonio’s complaint about his melancholy. This leads to his current financial situation and need for cash if he’s to fit Bassanio out for Belmont, as well as Bassanio’s debts and empty purse. But then there’s the matter of Portia’s strange requirement from her father, “curbed by the will of a dead father.” And eventually the bond with Shylock. Interestingly, the romantic element seems solved almost as soon as we’re aware of it. Bassanio has designs on the “lady richly left” and Portia responds enthusiastically to Nerissa’s mention of the Venetian scholar and soldier, even remembering his name. Shylock seems bit irritable, but we understand why, given his position as a Jewish money-lender in Venice, even if the curious bond doesn’t seem seriously threatening.

I’m also struck by a certain hard-headedness in the Venetian world, where ducats count. Salerio and Salanio immediately assume Antonio’s depression must be caused by the uncertainty of a merchant’s life, though he denies it. If he’s to lend money to Bassanio, it will have to be by credit. Even Belmont has its threats of unpleasant and unworthy suitors, though Portia seems to laugh it off. Bassanio refers to Portia’s money right off, pleased that he received fair speechless messages from her eyes, but pleased also by her money. If he’s to win her, he’ll need money he doesn’t yet have, to make a worthy appearance. So both Venice and Belmont require cash, and what’s needed depends on a money-lender, whose very definition of a good man depends on his financial sufficiency.

I think we assume Antonio is older than his friends, perhaps because of the “fie, fie” when Solanio suggests his melancholy may be caused by love. The opening scene seems to set Antonio’s depression off against the rather poetic representations of Salerio and Salanio and the jokey, maybe teasing response to Antonio by Gratiano. I think the impression is of a rather happy-go-lucky set, with Antonio the one discordant presence. Bassanio extols Portia as rich, beautiful, smart, and well known, and doesn’t at all undervalue his chances with her — if only he had the cash to put on a good show.

The second scene, in prose, seems to correspond directly with the first, but now in Belmont with equally witty women — even wittier than the men? Her gallery of various nationalities seems to depend on stock characteristics, wittily expressed. Presumably the dumbshow of the English suitor depended on audience familiarity with critiques of contemporary travelers.

Real conflict appears to emerge when Bassanio visits Shylock; the latter’s aside raises a sense of threat that comes of his grievance. His characterization nevertheless seems surprisingly sympathetic. I recall that his speech, “Signor Antonio, many a time and oft . . .” was something we were assigned to memorize in my Jesuit high school, and I can still recite it. The merry bond introduces threat of course, but also seems poised between threat and seeming benevolence. And we recall his opening sense of Antonio, who now looks less attractive.

What do we make of Antonio, and why is he the title character?

Dusty:

Yes, it’s interesting that the problems in this comedy — Bassanio’s lack of money and the restrictions on Portia’s choice — appear to be quickly solved, or solvable. We assume that Bassanio and Portia are going to get together. But this is perhaps a different kind of comedy, a darker one, in which new matter will be introduced to complicate our initial response.

You suggest that the first two scenes are “light and amusing” and the characters “happy go lucky.” You could certainly play them that way, and it might create an atmosphere that Shakespeare is soon going to darken and complicate. But couldn’t you also play Solerio and Solanio as glib lightweights, all froth and no substance, what Shylock will call “shallow foppery” (2.5.35)? Bassanio says that Gratiano “speaks an infinite deal of nothing” (1.1114). As we will soon enough see, Solerio and Solanio have an ugly side, especially when they talk about Shylock. Maybe the preoccupation with ducats is a signal that that’s all they really care about.

Antonio seems different. He seems to care about Bassanio. Solerio and Solanio are guessing that his melancholy is due to love — and maybe it is. (It’s a bit like Twelfth Night, which opens with Orsino moping because of love.) I’ve often wondered whether in MV it is homosociality — men freely saying that they “love” each other — or an unconfessed homosexual attachment. Yes, Antonio is named in the Dramatis Personae as “a merchant of Venice,” and the darker side of the play in some sense centers on him, and on Shylock, as antagonists. In the opening scene I think Antonio is presented sympathetically, his sadness in contrast to the jokey banter of his friends. He responds quickly and warmly to Bassanio’s request for money, and at this point I don’t think we wonder if he is behaving imprudently by offering to borrow the money himself (since everything he has is tied up in his ships at sea).

In 1.2, set in Belmont, Portia, like Antonio, is “aweary of this great world” — though I don’t think we believe her for a minute. Her language is indeed witty, and it suggests that the scene should be played lightly. It would probably be difficult to give the scene a dark edge, even though her situation is a hard one, her will curbed by her father’s, and because he is a “dead father” he cannot be persuaded or tricked (as often happens in comedy).

1.3 doesn’t feel like we’re in a comedy any more. It introduces Shylock, and sends contradictory signals: one the one hand Shylock bears an “ancient grudge” and is a userer, who only lends money at interest. On the other hand he has been badly treated in the past, and is badly treated in this scene, especially by Antonio. It’s odd that, having spat on Shylock’s gabardine, Antonio, when he needs money, turns first to Shylock. Is he oblivious to the hostility he has shown in the past? It’s also odd that Shylock, having been insulted, agrees to loan the money, and to ask for no interest. Is it possible that he is already hatching a plot to gain revenge by extracting a pound of flesh? Does he somehow soften in the course of the scene, or is he continuing to feed his ancient grudge? How does he think the transaction is going to end?

We are invited to contrast Shylock and Antonio. One is an “adventurer” who takes big risks — with his ships, and by loaning money that he doesn’t have, and at no interest. The other insures himself against risk, either by means of interest or a bond. Antonio is generous, but maybe imprudent. And he undercuts the moneylenders by loaning money gratis. Shylock is careful, cautious.

Interesting that Shylock doesn’t have the ready cash either. He says he’ll get it from a fellow Jew, Tubal. (Won’t he have to pay interest?). So is he acting in a business-like way?

Dusty:

Act 2 has nine separate scenes, most of them short — unlike the three long scenes of Act 1. It opens and closes in Belmont, but most of the scenes are in Venice. We quickly dispose of Morocco. Belmont seems a completely different world, though there are links to Venice: like the venturing Antonio, who risks everything for a big payoff, Morocco (so Portia says) must “take your chance,” and if he guesses wrong will lose everything (including the right to speak of marriage to her ever again.) It’s another big “hazard.” And Morocco says that although his skin is tawny his blood is redder than that of anybody born in the far north, and proposes oddly that they “make incision for your love.” We’ve just moments earlier heard of a pound of flesh “to be cut off.”

2.2 is by far the longest scene in the act, more than 200 lines. Much of it is devoted to the clown, Launcelot, trying to decide whether to desert his master, and his dim-sighted malapropist father. (It seems a little tedious after the more substantive scenes.) Again there is a link to Shylock, who had alluded to Jacob’s tricking of Laban. Here Launcelot, like Isaac fooling Jacob, asks the blessing of his father by turning his back. (But the parallel is not exact — Launcelot has no brother. Maybe the point is just to make fun of “Jacob.”) Launcelot deserts Shylock and joins the Bassanio group: he will turn out to be the character who holds the act together — he appears in four of the first six scenes. The second part of the scene is Bassanio and Gratiano. Gratiano wants to be Bassanio’s sidekick and Lover #2, normally in comedy somebody we sympathize with. But this scene suggests, more strongly than 1.1., that his lively manner indicates that maybe he’s not serious about anything, including love. Bassanio says he is “too wild, too rude, and bold of voice,” a “skipping spirit.” It will turn out that Lorenzo is going to be Lover #2.
Another quick scene in Venice sets up Shylock’s daughter as an enemy within his house. Do we see her, comically, as a young girl who simply and understandably wants to evade her father’s will and marry Lorenzo? (This makes her a parallel to Portia.) Or does this short scene suggest, more darkly, that she is a heartless daughter who hastily deserts her father? (Compare Launcelot’s more venal desertion.) Her readiness to convert looks ahead (though we cannot know it at the time) to the demand made of Shylock that he convert. 2.4 brings Launcelot into contact with Lorenzo-the-lover, and with his friends. Is this fun, the Shakespearean equivalent of a caper film? Or is it darker? We discover that Jessica is not only going to elope with Lorenzo, but plans to steal the gold and jewels of the “faithless Jew.” It would now seem that Jessica is the faithless one.

2.5 makes Shylock look bad: he confides to Jessica his hate for Antonio, on whom he intends to “feed.” He’s here the blocking figure who wants to lock up his daughter. “Fast bind” links this action to the “bond” from Antonio. And we now see that Shylock is playing another deceitful game: he was happy to lose Launcelot, who did not do him profitable service, and as Bassanio’s servant will hasten his new master’s “waste” of the borrowed money — which will put the Christians Bassanio and Antonio at a disadvantage in relation to Shylock.

2.6 completes Jessica’s escape from her father’s house. She carries a “casket” of jewels (which links her with Portia). She is ashamed not of stealing them, but of appearing in boy’s clothes. And she goes back to get more ducats! She is instantly described as “a gentle, and no Jew” – we can take that as part of the ongoing gentile/gentle joke, or a hint that in this play it is the Christians who are rapacious. It’s noteworthy, though, that Antonio is not part of this Rigoletto-like plot: his turning up at the end of the scene suggests that he may not be as bad as the other plotters.

Michael:

We keep seeing sharp contrasts in the play, amusing moments and poetic passages along with dark sections that indicate venality and deep-seated hatred. We’re drawn to some sympathy with Shylock, maybe especially in the desertion and thieving of his daughter, at the same time we know of his desire for vengeance. None of the Venetians are left clear of animus toward Shylock, even, or especially, Antonio. And the unexplained motivations you’ve mentioned, why Antonio would turn to the hated Shylock for a loan, and why Shylock would agree to lend it, are Venetian puzzles. In this Belmont would seem a refuge, except for the dark portraits of Morocco and Aragon, who in their self-importance seem to have slipped over from Venice. But Portia rules over Belmont, and this seems to give it a saving grace, even for Bassanio, who seems to rise to the occasion. The outcome of the casket choices seem to vindicate the absent father, and Nerissa’s interpretation of him. The casket plot, threatening at first, comes to seem a repository of wisdom, even if nutty when considered in realistic terms. Belmont, for the most part, resembles the “green world” of other plays and of pastoral in general. And of course it’s the site of the early solution of the love plot, which happens, it would seem prematurely, in the middle of the play. But clearly the play has its eye on other, larger matters. With Launcelot I suspect Shakespeare had an actor he had to use — he’s frequently just “the clown” — and the comedy, including the malaprops, doesn’t seem that compelling. Lorenzo seems something of a puzzle. His running off with Jessica and her father’s jewels and ducats seems part of the dark Venetian world, but he isn’t punished and, transferred to Belmont, gets some poetic lines later in the play about music.

Act III begins with Salario and Solanio advancing the plot with their dialogue before their interaction with Shylock. As S. defines himself to them, we hear another of those self definitions that cause some measure of understanding, though perhaps not sympathy exactly. The following dialogue with Tubal leads to a moment when Shylock’s past suddenly intrudes. Tubal’s mention of a ring traded for a monkey, draws Shylock’s recognition that the ring was “my turquoise” received from his wife before their marriage. “I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys” is one of those lines you never forget. Suddenly Shylock is more than just the one who calls out about “my daughter, my ducats.” The ring does not seem valuable, but was precious to Shylock. But then to Belmont, where Portia expresses her strong sentiments for Bassanio, and he for her. Her final evocation of Hercules and Hesione is surprising, and probably something a modern director would cut, but it’s striking and poetic indication of her passionate learning. I recall that some have wondered whether the rhymes of the song, bred, head, nourishèd, were meant as a clue in their rhyming also with “lead.” Is that too arcane, or were early-modern audiences attune to such suggestiveness? In any case the words of the song do seem to warn against reliance on the eyes and fancy. And the music, as always in the plays, creates a moment of heightened emotion. In any case, Bassanio’s long speech of consideration of the caskets raises tension but leads to the right conclusion. Portia’s response (aside?) is a gift to the actor who enacts it. Bassanio’s response to the portrait is wonderfully rich and is punctuated by the invitation to kiss. Portia’s response doesn’t fool us: “an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpracticed” is hardly what we’ve seen of her. What she says in train of this will not earn any feminist credits, but seems clearly an expression of her immediate love. I’m guessing the heightened poetry of these passages is understood to offset the hard-headedness of the Venetian world. Would objecting to them be to fall into the city’s dark world? The Gratiano/Nerissa response to Portia/Bassanio just underscores the conclusion of the love plot and almost suggests the play is over, though halfway through.

The quick turn to Antonio and his plight, will of course occupy the rest of the play. Portia’s suggestion of defacing the bond gives a sense of her extravagant generosity, but that she insists on suspending the completion of the marriage until the bond is dealt with lets us know that the marriage plot must be tied to the bond plot.

Dusty:

I continue to meditate on a “dark” reading of the play, and wonder if the “green world” of Belmont fully balanced the ugliness of Venice. Much depends on Portia and her poetry, as you suggest. More depends on her role in the judgment scene and how we interpret that. I will carry us up to the end of Act III, and assume that you and then I will have a lot to say about Act IV.

2.7 gives us Morocco. At first the caskets business seems like it doesn’t belong in a play about Venice, merchants, and money. But then it does. Lead is linked to “hazarding” all you have — which is in fact what Antonio does with his shipping ventures. Silver is linked to what you “deserve,” and I continue to wonder why Bassanio “deserves” Portia. (He is perhaps the least appealing of Shakespeare’s young male wooers.) Gold is linked to what all men “desire,” which in some cases is love and in other cases ducats.

In 2.8 Salerio and Solanio serve as expositors, to introduce essential information, but also as hostile reporters mocking poor Shylock, and as sympathetic friends who make note again of Antonio’s “love” for Bassanio. We hear so much about this “affection wondrous sensible” that I think we figure that there’s more than homosociality here.

In 2.9 we know in advance what’s going to happen: Aragon will make another wrong choice, and
we get some more references to hazard and desert.

Dusty:

3.1 gives us more exposition from Salerio and Solanio, and then a big moment for Shylock. Again we get two sides: his calls for “revenge” are ugly, but he also gets a big speech: “Hath not a Jew eyes?. . .” that has to be designed as a series of questions to the audience as well? Interesting that he begins with “eyes,” since we have already been invited to think that what the eye sees (in the caskets) is misleading. It’s odd that Shylock assigns such value to the plain ring Leah gave him, and by contrast would rather have his ducats back than his daughter. It’s shocking that he “would my daughter were dead at my foot.”

3.2 is the longest scene so far, and seems (as you suggest) to conclude the “marriage plot.” It seems to me that the fix has always been in. Both Nerissa and Portia are rooting for Bassanio, and of course he is the winner. It’s interesting that Portia seems to be the more aggressive wooer — maybe we are to assume that the usual love-wooing has already taken place off-stage. (That’s interesting in itself.) Bassanio says a lot about gold, but his dismissal of silver and his choice of lead seem perfunctory — as if Shakespeare is impatient to move on. Portia respond with a lot of language about accounting. As you say, she is disingenuous. When she commits everything to Bassanio, she says what’s mine is all yours. Maybe what’s important is that she makes free unconditional gifts, unlike Shylock who makes sure to secure any loan he makes with a “bond.” But later the ring she gives Bassanio will turn out to be a kind of bond. She also says that what’s Bassanio’s is “half” hers. It’s now that he tells her that he has no money of his own — he presumably spent all of Shylock’s money to make himself look flush. All she gets from Bassanio is a share of the bad news about Antonio’s losses.

3.3 Meanwhile, Shylock has upped the ante: he won’t take Portia’s money and thus let Antonio off the hook. And we also find out that Shylock has more motive: Antonio has several times “delivered” Shylock’s debtors by bailing them out.

3.4 In this scene we hear that Antonio is the “bosom lover” of Bassanio. Closer and closer.

3.5. Another scene with Launcelot. Maybe, as you say, Shakespeare had to write something for the actor. I’m tempted to skim. But can we find something in his lines that advances or complicates the action? A lot of verbal “quibbles” in this scene — and elsewhere. Johnson thought Shakespeare couldn’t resist them. Are they doing some other kind of work?

Michael:

One backward glance at the casket choice, Aragon’s choice of “desert”: in “Hamlet,” coming in a few years, Hamlet will memorably say to Polonius, in response to P’s saying he will accommodate the players according to their desert, “God’s bodkin, man, much better. Use every man according to his desert and who shall ‘scape whipping.” Rather a consistent thought on Shakespeare’s part. I would guess the answer to why Bassanio “deserves” Portia is that he doesn’t, and no one could. His getting the right casket is a matter of correct understanding of human nature, rather than moral worth, so already we’re also in a play of ideas. I think Bassanio has to be played carefully.

But I agree that Bassanio seems a somewhat pale lover. He does have some strong poetry, and is unfailingly loyal to Antonio. But he is perhaps something of a cog, which may be why he’s assigned the strong poetry. He can’t really be worthy of Portia, but who could?

Michael:

But on to Act 4 and the major scene of the play, as I think. The duke is apparently inclined to mercy, but constrained by what law and the commercial status of Venice requires. His only hope is persuasion of Shylock, who remains steadfast in his desire for vengeance against Antonio. I wonder what Antonio means by saying he is the “tainted wether of the flock, meetest for death” as if he’s the one to be properly sacrificed — for what? Bassanio’s successful love, Venice’s commercial position and its laws? Antonio’s position is always somewhat mysterious.

In reading the play, we know that Portia and Nerissa are the law clerks sent by Bellario. And earlier, in 3.4, we heard Portia’s plan of cross dressing, and of wanting to appear the more manly of the two. But there may be a moment of wondering on the audience’s part about the identity of the emissaries from Bellario. Rather a splendid question on Balthasar’s part when he/she asks which is the merchant, which the Jew. They both must look equally down. But the “quality of mercy” speech give the full argument against Shylock and his sense of things. It’s basically a theological argument, but clearly enunciates a view of life, and stands perhaps as the heart of the play. (It too was part of our high school memorization.) Shylock’s obdurate position allows Portia to play him like a fish, but Bassanio and Gratiano too, as the scene goes on for some hundred lines, before Portia’s “Tarry a little,” and the trap is sprung. Gratiano is given a chorus-like position of jeering at Shylock, which frees up Bassanio and the others. Gratiano’s jeering seems to allow the appearance of magnanimity in the Duke and Antonio. Is it? I think it’s meant to be seen as that, and I’ve generally felt that the play is coming at this point to a jousting of ideas. Why is everything given to Lorenzo and Jessica, and why is Shylock ordered to become a Christian? Seems like the ideas of the play may have taken over. Or are we to assume overreaction on Antonio’s part? In any case, Shylock seems broken. And Gratiano is allowed one more sneer. The “ring plot” comes at this point, and this may be meant as a tempering, or countering, of the pound-of-flesh plot. In any case, the whole act has taken place in Venice, where things are rigorous and difficult.

Dusty:

Yes, the judgment scene is the climax of the play, if not the center. It’s the point of maximum tension. In Aristotelian terms, it’s also the peripeteia.

Yes, the Duke may be inclined to mercy. But he asks for mercy from Shylock, and on top of that asks him to “forgive a moiety of the principal.” That seems like a lot to ask. Shylock could simply say no, and ask that the contract be enforced, to the letter of the law. (That could set up a “letter of the law” vs. “spirit of the law” debate.) He doesn’t have to give a reason — and could have stopped there. But he goes on to his “lodged hate” and “loathing.” Why? Maybe because he sensed that the Duke was asking too much of him. Maybe because of the way the Duke’s appeal ended: the last word is “Jew,” and it could be spoken with contempt by an actor (or heard by Shylock as contempt).

We get some vile Jew-bashing from Antonio, and (for the rest of the scene) from Gratiano, who seems to me more than just a Greek chorus in his repeated jeers and taunts. We were told back in 1.1. that Gratiano “speaks an infinite deal of nothing,  but here nobody calls him on it. It’s maybe the ugliest part of the play.

When Shylock refuses the offer of 6000 ducats, the Duke again appeals for mercy, implicitly invoking the Lord’s Prayer — “forgive us our trespasses, [insofar] as we forgive those who trespass against us” — and anticipating one of the points Portia makes. It’s a bit odd that the Duke, who is in charge of the trial, after trying to settle the matter himself declares that he has asked for advice from Bellario, who is to “determine” the matter.

When she comes in, it’s indeed a great moment when she asks “which is the merchant . . . ?” A director might have her address her question “Is your name Shylock?” to Antonio, and have Shylock answer “Shylock is my name.” When she says “Then must the Jew be merciful” do we hear two meanings, one of them “Surely the Jew will be merciful,” while Shylock only hears “the Jew is obliged or compelled to be merciful.”

Her famous “quality of mercy” speech is prompted by Shylock’s question: “On what compulsion .  . .” She asks that mercy “season” justice. Shylock still refuses. Portia still seems to be looking for a solution, asking whether Bassanio is able to “discharge the money.” But then she seems to reverse herself, declaring that even though the money is ready to be repaid she will now demand the letter of the decree. If she is really looking to “mitigate” the harshness of justice, why does

she refuse the deal that Bassanio re-offers? She now seems as hard-hearted as anybody on the stage, demanding full “justice” on Antonio — and then on Shylock. Gratiano is temporarily silenced, and then when balance shifts he again bays repeatedly for revenge on Shylock. By contrast, Antonio, ready for death, focuses on his love for Bassanio, and here again a director could suggest that this is more than homosocial “love.”

One could say that Shylock, by re-insisting on the letter of the law, traps and condemns himself. Or that Portia traps him. But to what end does she trap him? To teach him a lesson, and if so what lesson? She becomes the embodiment of the law. Even after, as you say, she springs the trap, all could be resolved peaceably. Shylock says he’ll take the offer and Bassanio hands him the money. But Portia, the spokeswoman for mercy, again refuses the deal. And she’s not done yet: “the law hath yet another hold on you.”

For years I read this scene as essentially comic, Portia in good-humored even-tempered control and making Shylock squirm. But I think you could read it more darkly: Portia relentlessly pursues Shylock. She refuses a resolution a third time when Shylock says ‘just give me the principal’ and Bassanio hands it to him. And she never reproves the vile Gratiano.

Portia preaches mercy, and she teaches mercy — both the Duke and Antonio moderate their demands. But in practice Christian mercy turns out to be almost as harsh as justice: Shylock, having been threatened with death because of a strained literalist interpretation of the law, is permitted to live, but must give up half his goods, give the rest of his goods when he dies to his faithless daughter, and give up his religion! As a defeated Shylock leaves the stage, he is hounded by Gratiano’s final jeer. Are we in the audience supposed to jeer with him? And as you rightly ask, why should Lorenzo and Jessica be rewarded with Shylock’s goods?

Portia then slips away, but not without asking for the ring. It’s as if she is  now trying to trap Bassanio, just as she earlier trapped Shylock. In the short second scene of act 4 there is even a civil exchange between the disguised Portia and the vile Gratiano. Could she not, even in disguise, have reproved him for his vehemence? (The second scene sets up the “ring plot’, and makes clear that it could have been avoided if Bassanio had not sent Gratiano with the ring to catch up with the disguised Portia.)

Dusty:

Back in Belmont, in a moonlit garden, where we soon hear music. It’s as if we have left venal Venice behind and all can be happily resolved. All the characters gather except for Shylock. The traditional reading, I think, is for a fully comic resolution under Portia’s direction.

But there are dissonant moments in the text, amidst the gentlest of music. Maybe Lorenzo and Jessica are just “playfully” — as the Signet editor suggests — engaging in a game, matching each other with examples of “In such a night . . . In such a night.” But these lovers in fact invoke faithless lovers (Cressida), dead lovers (Pyramus and Thisbe), forsaken lovers (Dido), murderous lovers (Medea). Faithlessness is the charge that Portia and Nerissa bring against Bassanio and Gratiano. (Then Gratiano swears by the moon — hardly a sign of constancy.) Bassanio lies when he says he was “enforced” to send the ring after the disguised Portia: the text shows plainly that Portia departed when he refused the ring, and he could have just left it there.

The ring plot is a parody of the bond plot: again Portia acts as a judge (“You were to blame . . .”) and again she refers to “forfeit” and “surety.” And she declares that there must be a penalty — no going to bed. What’s different is that we know that the men are not really promise-breakers in a serious sense (although they did violate the letter of their promises), and that the women do not really distrust them. But Antonio continues to sound like a different kind of lover: while the other lovers tease each other (even at the end), he always speaks in earnest.

The ending is over the top: several of Antonio’s ships are safe after all. So the only one punished is Shylock. Even vile Gratiano gets his undeserved reward, and he also, confoundingly, gets the last speech of the play. Why shouldn’t Portia (or Bassanio, or mopey Antonio) get the last word? Why should Gratiano get to speak at all? And his final words are another sexual innuendo! Does it hint that all of the characters (apart from the merchant and the moneylender) are frivolous and heartless?

Michael:

You’ve sent me back to Act 4 for some reconsidering. Mainly the Gratiano problem. I agree that “chorus” isn’t really an adequate way to describe him and the problem he represents. Bassanio describes him early on as an uncontrolled speaker of nonsense, and his baiting of Shylock certainly follows, and nastily, from that. But Shakespeare creates a serious problem in marrying him off to Nerissa, whose witty banter with Portia should make her deserve better. And his speaking the final lines of the play compounds this. Yes, he is vile, so why is he allowed to be a sort of marital double for Bassanio? Comedic symmetry, not unusual in the comedies, seems to trump decency and character plotting here. We may feel that sometimes one has to sit down with Shakespeare and point out a mistake.

But Portia’s backsliding on mercy, which you point out, is more troubling. Her first response to Bassanio’s offer of twice, or ten times, comes of a legalistic sense that Venice cannot alter a contract. Then she tells Shylock Bassanio is offering a three times payment. But Shylock objects strongly to each offer of settling. Clearly she knows what she will finally do and allows a demonstration of Shylock’s rather bloodthirsty rigidity. And Antonio’s self sacrifice to Bassanio responds to that, as well as Bassanio’s response to Antonio. Portia’s apparent backsliding comes of a compounding of justice in the Venetian statute on contriving against a citizen. But she does call on him to ask mercy, which prompts an outburst from Gratiano. And the “mercy” of the duke is simply allowing Shylock to escape death, which is rather obliquely mentioned by Portia. The rest of his punishment/sentence seems to follow what Portia laid out. Antonio’s “mercy” resides in Shylock’s forced conversion and a “gift” at his death of his possessions to Lorenzo and the faithless daughter. Yes, not much mercy, just only allowing Shylock to live, it seems. This may be the reason for Gratiano: his nastiness allows the problems with Venetian mercy to be overshadowed. Gratiano keeps baying for Shylock’s death, but instead he’s allowed a rather thin reprieve, which stands for mercy.

So Shakespeare’s response to our objections to Gratiano might come in his need to create the appearance of mercy in relation to the Gratiano nastiness. Yes, he admits, it’s painful and not logical, but it’s good theater. “So I’ve got to get Shylock offstage quickly before anyone notices.” And as he does, he concludes the tragedy of Shylock. What’s left of course is a question how anyone can be forced to convert. Which was also very much a question for Elizabethan England.

And so, to compensate — and turn the tables on Bassanio and Gratiano — he’ll introduce the ring plot. Logically this illustrates the need to temper the rigidity of oaths with the necessary generosity of repaying a seemingly measureless benefaction. And it does, with a fair amount of sexual jokeyness about cuckoldry. And this is tempered when Portia springs her second trap, revealing the actual sex of the legal eagles. And yes, it’s a bit much to have Antonio’s argosies restored, but Portia says we can’t really know about this. This is a comedy, Shakespeare seems to insist, so Antonio needs some cheering up too. And so does Lorenzo, but Jessica is kept decently silent.

Yes, it would be better for Antonio or Bassanio, or even better for Portia, to get the last lines. But he goes for “cute” in Gratiano’s joke about consummating the marriage, which goes along with the spirit of the last act.

The contest of mythical allusions between Lorenzo and Jessica does undercut any light or hopeful sense of things with them. Then we get a rather lame reappearance of Launcelot, which must be accompanied with some silly capering. It’s hard to say what to make of the thematic insistence on moonlight and music, except to remind us that this is a comedy and we still need the ring plot to unfold.

I tend to see the last act as an assertion of the comedic spirit after the dark bond plot, to offset the tragedy of Shylock. The music too seems intended to do that.

I recall the early 2000’s film of the play with Al Pacino playing Shylock, very much his tragedy. To make it that, a good deal of Shylock’s text was cut, and fair enough as it had to evade any hint of antisemitism. I don’t recall what was done with Gratiano, but I would guess he too was much reduced. In any case it was certainly a tragedy narrowly encased in a comedy. Maybe we should follow up by seeing that film and measuring what it does with the text.

Dusty:

I take your point that Gratiano’s nastiness may serve to make Portia’s mercy look better. But I am still troubled by the fact that he gets off scot-free: not reproved, rewarded with Nerissa, and gets the last words.

And I agree that the resolution of the ring plot suggests that forgiveness helps us forget severe and vengeful justice.

Yes, the final act restores us to “comedy.” But only by whisking Shylock off stage and diverting our attention from him. Shakespeare could have made the final act more purely comedic. He seems to have decided to leave some bad taste in our mouths. Why not wrap things up neatly and “happily” by having Bassanio pay back the money he borrowed, demonstrating that mercy trumps justice, Belmont trumps Venice, Christian trumps Jew? Instead, Shakespeare has Portia insist on oppressive financial terms.

There’s more. Why did Shakespeare have Antonio require that Shylock convert? Couldn’t that extra mile of punishment have been left out?

Antonio is an ambiguous figure: generous, a foil to Shylock, a devoted friend, but incurably melancholy. As I have suggested, Shakespeare makes clear that Antonio is more interested in love (of Bassanio) than in money. So his comedic “reward” at the end of the play is not as rewarding as it might be for somebody else. It restores his riches, but leaves him alone. (I do not imagine he’s going to spend much time with a married Bassanio.)

Maybe “Merchant of Venice” has more in common with the darker comedies than is usually thought. Maybe it’s another “problem play.” I wonder how that dimension of the play might be brought out in the staging. Where do you put Antonio at the end of the play? Might you give the audience a glimpse of a forlorn Shylock? Do you have Portia nod in endorsement of Gratiano’s sniggering closing lines, or do you have her and Bassanio, separated from Gradiano, shaking their heads as if to say “there he goes again”?