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Unit 4: Reading & Writing About Drama

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C H A P T E R 5

Writing about Drama

ll the world’s a stage,” wrote Shakespeare, and on that stage we wit- ness the joys and sorrows, the tragedy and comedy, the reality and ro-

mance of life. While one traditional purpose of drama is to “suspend your sense of disbelief” so that you can respond emotionally to what you experi- ence, thinking about and describing drama gives you a far deeper understand- ing of it. Learning about tragedy, comedy, tragicomedy, melodrama, and other types of plays will help you understand the conventions of dramatic lit- erature and playwriting, and through this process, help you to not only expe- rience the world of the play, but aid you in understanding why you experience it the way you do.

THE ELEMENTS OF DRAMA

Tragedy and comedy are the best-known categories of dramatic writing per- haps because they were the first to be defined, and have a long, if somewhat erratic, tradition. Aristotle, in his Poetics, describes and defines the nature of tragedy, albeit his view was limited because he based it upon tragedy written during the “golden age” of Greek drama, and obviously could not foretell the evolution of the drama through the millennia to follow. But the prolific writ- ings of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides—the three Greek tragedians whose plays remain extant—provided Aristotle with enough samples to de- vise a theory of tragic form. For Aristotle, tragedy focused on a hero (male or female) of noble birth, who, through a misdeed or hamartia, underwent a de- cline in stature that led to tragic consequences whether in the realm of mate- rial prosperity, physical well-being, or moral rectitude, or a combination of these, as in the case of Oedipus Rex. Even the titles of many Greek tragedies are the royal personages upon which the plays focus, such as Antigone, Electra, and Agamemnon.

The development and subsequent action of true tragedy usually derives from one or more of three possible modes of conflict: an internal conflict that the protagonist, or main character, must resolve within himself or herself; a

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conflict between a protagonist and an outside antagonist; or one between the protagonist and the society-at-large. Although the play A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry might not be classified as a classic tragedy, it embodies all those conflicts that make tragedy possible. Walter Younger is confronted by several simultaneous conflicts. He is at odds with his family who have differ- ent ideas concerning how to spend his father’s life insurance benefits. He is in conflict with society-at-large in the guise of Mr. Linder, who offers to buy back the home in a white neighborhood that the Younger family has just pur- chased, rather than allow the African-American family to move in. Finally, he must do battle with his own sense of righteousness and justice, whether to ac- cept the offer that will leave him with enough money to open his liquor store, and tacitly accept the racist motivation behind it; or keep the newly purchased house, and struggle to make a decent life for his family. Most drama that has been acknowledged through history as the finest examples of the playwright’s art (such plays as A Doll’s House, Oedipus, and Death of a Salesman, as well as most of the works of Shakespeare) interweave these three elements of conflict.

On the stage today, we rarely see a contemporary tragedy that rigidly con- forms to the genre as it was first defined by Aristotle. First of all, few of us truly would be shocked by flaws in so-called great personages, as we have come to consider even the loftiest world leaders as human and subject to the same weaknesses as the rest of us. Tabloids are filled with sordid tales of great men and women and we have grown to take them for granted. Second, play- wrights, beginning in the nineteenth century, have broadened their perspec- tive to focus attention on the conflicts and actions of the lower and middle classes, not just the mighty and powerful. One might call this the democratiza- tion of tragedy, and this inclination has followed the same trends that have oc- curred in other art forms, for example, painting, poetry, architecture, and so on. Take for example the very name of the main protagonist in Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman—where “Low-man” suggests his humble status.

Coinciding with the reduction in the stature of characters in tragedy has come a hybrid form that has come to be known as tragicomedy, that is, works of drama that combine the tragic and comic together. A Raisin in the Sun com- bines elements of both tragic and comic form as do David Hwang’s Family De- votions and Susan Glaspell’s Suppressed Desires. While these plays address is- sues such as intergenerational and intercultural conflict, rancor, jealousy, even murder, the playwrights have managed to inject moments of humor that add dimension to human experience.

We do not have a comprehensive theory of comedy from Aristotle (al- though he planned to write one), but we do have many early extant Greek comedies by the playwright Aristophanes who poked fun at Greek mores, pol- itics, and society. Perhaps his most famous play is Lysistrata, which satirizes the absurdity of war as well as the “war between the sexes.” Today, political satire is alive and well in film and television, and as you probably know, is a major subject for contemporary stand-up comedians.

The two Roman comic writers whose works are extant are Terence and Plau- tus. They helped to initiate the type of theater we know as comedy. Influenced

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by the Greeks, Plautus’ plays satirized Roman life, using such devices as bungling behavior, reversals of expectations, and mistaken identity to keep his audience laughing. His most famous play, The Menaechmi Twins, was the inspira- tion for Shakespeare’s first play, The Comedy of Errors. And today we still see the influence of Roman comedy in such forms as farce and slapstick in the theater and situation comedies on TV. Terence’s comedies, on the other hand, did not go for the broad laugh, and just as is true among today’s audiences, his more subtle comedies and humanistic themes were not as popular as Plautus’, whose work inspired more belly laughs.

Melodrama is a type of drama which, although derived from tragedy, stands apart from it because the conflicts that the characters must confront are contrived or merely clever and the characters are usually less fleshed out than three-dimensional dramatic characters, and they seem to resolve their conflicts in interesting, yet concocted ways. While melodrama is not found as much on the stage today as it was in the nineteenth century, the form is alive and well in many contemporary action-adventure movies like the Indiana Jones films and Romancing the Stone, where men and women are saved from disaster in the nick of time, much as they are in the old cliché of the damsel in distress who is tied to a railroad track as a speeding train approaches, only to be whisked away at the last moment by a valiant hero.

With the proliferation of drama portraying the common person, many audi- ence members have become accustomed to associating plays with realistic por- traits of life and with rather conventional ways of depicting such portraits, as though the theater were a place to see a mirror or reproduction of real life. This couldn’t be further from the truth, however. Many so-called schools and move- ments of drama have depicted life in unrealistic manners. Playwrights such as Eugene Ionesco and Samuel Beckett portray a world that is quite unlike the one with which we are familiar. Plays representing life with an unreal quality in- clude depictions of life as romantic as in Lady Gregory’s The Rising of the Moon; or absurd as in Samuel Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape; or magical as in Langston Hughes’ Soul Gone Home. Even the contemporary classic Death of a Salesman has many scenes of unreality, when, for example, Willie’s brother seems to magi- cally appear on stage much in the same way as the ghost appears in Hamlet.

Plot

As in fiction, plot is essential to nearly all drama, in fact, possibly more so than to other forms of literature. Plot is a skeleton of the action in a play. It is what happens to characters under the circumstances the playwright has devised. One reason plot is so important in drama is that since plays are meant to be performed and seen, an audience will have little tolerance for pauses in the ac- tion. In fiction, on the other hand, action may be interwoven with physical de- scription or characters’ thoughts. In drama, what you see is what you get, so to speak. And it is the playwright, in his or her division of acts and scenes, who will determine the pauses in the action, whereas a reader is free to stop and start reading where he or she pleases.

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To keep the plot of a drama interesting to its audience, most playwrights try to maintain a heightened level of action through the development of con- flicts and obstacles that occur far more readily and densely than they do in real life. It is through such conflict that the plot moves forward. And the greater the stakes involved in these conflicts, the more riveting the play will be and the more you will care about how the conflict is resolved. Take for exam- ple an early scene in A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen. Nora, the protagonist, is having a discussion with Krogstad, a man from whom she borrowed money to keep her family intact during a stressful and tenuous period. Krogstad, a bank clerk, fearing that he will be passed by for a promotion by his superior, Helmer (Nora’s husband), threatens to blackmail Nora by revealing that she borrowed money from him without her husband’s knowledge.

KROGSTAD: . . . My sons are growing up; for their sake, I must try to regain what respectability I can. This job in the bank was the first step on the ladder. And now your husband wants to kick me off that lad- der into the dirt.

NORA: But my dear Mr. Krogstad, it simply isn’t in my power to help you. KROGSTAD: You say that because you don’t want to help me. But I have the

means to make you. NORA: You don’t mean you’d tell my husband that I owe you money? KROGSTAD: And if I did? NORA: That’ be a filthy trick!

Nora counters that her husband will merely pay back the money that is owed, which would at first glance seem to defuse Krogstad’s threat. But Krogstad retaliates and increases the stakes and the conflict by dangling a damaging secret about Nora’s loan before her. Several lines later, the follow- ing exchange occurs:

KROGSTAD: I promised to get you the money in exchange for an I.O.U., which I drew up.

NORA: Yes, and which I signed. KROGSTAD: Exactly. But then I added a few lines naming your father as secu-

rity for the debt. This paragraph was to be signed by your father. NORA: Was to be? He did sign it.

• • •

KROGSTAD: Tell me, Mrs. Helmer, do you by any chance remember the date of your father’s death? The day of the month, I mean.

NORA: Papa died on the twenty-ninth of September. KROGSTAD: Quite correct; I took the trouble to confirm it. And that leaves me

with a curious little problem—[Takes a paper.] which I simply can- not solve.

NORA: Problem? I don’t see— KROGSTAD: The problem, Mrs. Helmer, is that your father signed this paper

three days after his death.

This building and relaxing and building again of tension is what moves the ac- tion of the play forward, giving shape to the plot.

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While the building up of tension in this example is fairly clear, what seems to be mere conversation in a play often contains the seeds of conflict that will have an impact on the later action. This is particularly true of more contempo- rary plays that portray human action in subtler terms. Take for example one of the many conflicts that beset the Younger family in A Raisin in the Sun—the conflict between Walter’s ambitions and the caution of his wife, Ruth. It is evi- dent even in this bit of morning banter from Act I:

WALTER: You know what I was thinking ’bout in the bathroom this morning? RUTH: No! WALTER: How come you always try to be so pleasant? RUTH: What is there to be pleasant ’bout? WALTER: You want to know what I was thinking ’bout in the bathroom or

not? RUTH: I know what you thinking ’bout. WALTER: ’Bout what me and Willy Harris was talking about last night. RUTH: Willy Harris is a good-for-nothing loudmouth.

We eventually learn that Willy Harris is involving Walter in a scheme to open up a liquor store, and this has a dramatic impact on Walter’s actions during the play, initiating a complex series of conflicts between himself and other members of his family.

While plays rely on rising action that is a result of tensions that in turn are caused by a conflict or a series of conflicts, this conflict must somehow be re- solved or at least relieved in the end. It is unlikely that you would feel satis- fied with a plot that left a major conflict unresolved. As in most plays, the cli- max to the rising action in A Raisin in the Sun occurs near its end. In this poignant scene, Walter’s internal and external conflicts are resolved in a show- down with Mr. Linder when the latter pays his final visit to purchase back a house the Younger family has bought in a white neighborhood:

WALTER: Yeah, Well—what I mean is that we come from people who had a lot of pride. I mean—we are very proud people. And that’s my sister over there and she’s going to be a doctor—and we are very proud—

LINDER: Well—I am sure that is very nice, but— WALTER: What I am telling you is that we called you over here to tell you that

we are very proud and that this—Travis, come here. This is my son, and he makes the sixth generation our family in this country. And we have all thought about your offer—

LINDER: Well, good . . . good— WALTER: And we have decided to move into our house because my father—

my father—he earned it for us brick by brick. We don’t want to make no trouble for nobody or fight no causes, and we will try to be good neighbors. And that’s all we got to say about that. We don’t want your money.

The Younger family’s conflict now resolved, the play ends with them banter- ing happily about their move, their spirits uplifted. As you read a play, keep in mind the importance of plot and make notes on how the plot develops. To

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learn more about plot, you may also want to predict how the plot unfolds, and compare your idea with that of the author’s.

Character

Aristotle suggested and playwrights in general follow the rule of thumb that “character is action.” Another way of thinking about character is to envision him or her as determined by the choices he or she makes. Take the character of Iago from Othello. In the character list he is described as “IAGO, Othello’s en- sign, a villain.” This does not tell us very much. However, in the first scene of Othello, we soon find out what kind of person he is. Othello, it appears, has passed over Iago for promotion to lieutenant. Iago is enraged, for—as far as he is concerned—he has the greater experience in matters of war than the candi- date Othello has demonstrated. He states his feelings to Roderigo this way:

Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old graduation, where each second Stood heir to th’ first. Now, sir, be judge yourself, Whether I in any just term am affined To love the Moor.

During the course of the play, Iago’s character is revealed as he methodi- cally torments Othello until the latter thinks Desdemona, his wife, has been unfaithful, resulting in the demise of both Othello and his wife. While most of us would like to take revenge upon a seemingly unfair boss, few of us would act upon it as Iago does. Understanding the traits that make character interest- ing is what allowed Shakespeare to appeal to an audience that was made up of all social classes. So, despite the fact that Shakespeare is renowned for the quality of his language, it is his talent for developing character that makes him a good playwright.

This focus on the relationship between action and character should not give you the impression that a three-dimensional character is fully developed through his or her actions alone or that it is easy to develop a dramatic charac- ter. For a character to behave plausibly throughout a play, the playwright must have a strong sense of who that character is, how the character looks, sounds, dresses, thinks, reacts, and so on. Henrik Ibsen, one of the fathers of modern drama (perhaps because of his ability to create such well-motivated characters) said this about the people who inhabited his plays:

Before I write down one word, I have to have the character in mind through and through, and I must penetrate into the last part of his soul—the individ- ual comes before anything else—the stage set, etc. . . .

The most interesting characters in drama tend to be complex ones, and their actions although seemingly truthful may not necessarily be anticipated ones. Who would think that the Sergeant in Lady Gregory’s The Rising of the Moon would let the fugitive go or that Othello would kill his wife or that Willy Loman, despite his pathetic nature, would kill himself so his family could be

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sustained by his insurance money, or that Oedipus would blind himself? All these actions are credible, but unexpected. In writing about character, ask yourself questions. Most likely they are the same sorts of questions the play- wright asked as he or she planned to write. Who is this character? What are the given circumstances of time, place, social class, and situation that he or she must respond to? How does he or she respond?

Not all characters in plays are so fully developed that you will feel you know all about them. Many plays are populated by characters who enter the stage for a small portion of the play. These are often called “secondary char- acters.” But a talented playwright will have even secondary characters. For example, Sylvester, Ma Rainey’s nephew in August Wilson’s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, is fleshed out, interesting, and a contributing factor in the ac- tion of the play, having been endowed with a puerile personality and a no- ticeable stutter.

Setting

Unlike the movies, where you may be transported from New York to Califor- nia to Tokyo in the blink of an eye, the settings in plays remain rather static throughout the action, changing perhaps between acts, if at all. And also un- like movies, which can actually show us all the minutiae of life by directly filming it, settings in drama often only suggest the places they depict, or, if it is in the playwright’s vision, even distort them. Still other playwrights may not consider setting important at all, and their plays are often devoid of any description as to how the stage should be depicted, leaving it up to you, the reader or playgoer, to fill in the gaps with your imagination.

Besides revealing time and place through props (furniture, everyday ob- jects, and costuming), setting can also exploit stage lighting and special effects such as rear-projected film and sound effects to enhance the mood of a play. Dim lighting might suggest a depressing atmosphere; bright lights, an upbeat one. Advances in theatrical technology have expanded the possibilities of es- tablishing setting, as they have our expectations of how setting is depicted. The Greeks relied upon the simplest of means to suggest time and place—for example, a vertical rectangular box that was painted with a tree on one side, an architectural column on the other (which would be turned according to whether the scene was set in the city or the countryside). Contemporary play- wrights, on the other hand, have often called for fairly elaborate staging so that the audience actually sees a fair representation of the place it is meant to depict. In the end, however, the complexity or lack thereof of a setting is usu- ally up to the vision of the playwright. Notice, for example, the opening set- ting from the contemporary playwright David Hwang’s Family Devotions.

The sunroom and backyard of a home in Bel Air. Everywhere is glass—glass roof, glass walls. Upstage of the lanai/sunroom is a patio with a barbecue and a tennis court. The tennis court leads offstage. As the curtain rises, we see a single spotlight on an old Chinese face and hear Chinese music or chanting. Suddenly, the music becomes modern-day funk or rock ‘n’ roll, and the lights

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come up to reveal the set. The face is that of DI-GOU, an older Chinese man wearing a blue suit and carrying an old suitcase. He is peering into the sun- room from the tennis court, through the glass walls. Behind him, a stream of black smoke is coming from the barbecue.

Another function of setting that may perform an important role in the life of a play is its ability to suggest the mood of the environment and/or reveal aspects of the character’s or characters’ interior emotions. Note Lorraine Hans- berry’s use of personification in her description of the Younger household at the start of A Raisin in the Sun, a description that provides you with an insight into the emotional tenor of the occupants.

Its furnishings are typical and undistinguished and their primary feature now is that they have clearly had to accommodate the living of too many people for too many years—and they are tired. . . . Now the once loved pattern of the couch upholstery has to fight to show itself from under acres of crocheted doilies and couch covers . . . but the carpet has fought back by showing its weariness, with depressing uniformity, elsewhere on its surface.

Thus, the setting mirrors the Younger family’s life circumstances and their interior lives as well, and at the same time provides an introduction to the play that may rivet your attention and make you want to read more.

The description of setting that introduces Arthur Miller’s Death of a Sales- man produces a similar effect in providing an analogy between Willy’s home and its environs and Willy’s state of mind in relationship to his environment. It is interesting to note that Miller’s original title for the play was “The Inside of His Head.”

We are aware of towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home. An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out of reality.

Staging

Plays are meant to be performed and for audiences to view the performances. If you’ve ever read a play and then gone to see it performed, you probably be- came aware of the difference between the two experiences. Seeing a perfor- mance of a play is what makes it complete. While you can ascertain certain things from reading plays that you would be hard pressed to do from a per- formance, for example, arcane references in the dialogue, subtleties of style, camouflaged symbols and the like, being present at a performance of a play adds a dimension to your understanding and appreciation of drama that is impossible from reading.

In staging a play, the theater artist has to consider such elements as cast- ing, makeup, costume, the arrangement and movement of the actors on the stage (referred to as blocking), physical and vocal pacing, vocal qualities—in fact, nearly anything that contributes to communicating the world of the play

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to the mind of the audience member. While nothing can substitute for seeing a live performance, one way to envision what a play would be like performed when you read it is to imagine how you would see it at a performance. For ex- ample, how do you imagine Nora to look in A Doll’s House? How does Othello or Oedipus carry himself? Is the former tall, short; does he possess a serious demeanor? How is the latter dressed? Oedipus is supposed to have a mis- shapen foot. How do you imagine him to walk? What sorts of facial and body expressions do the musicians carry in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom? Do they ap- pear angry, resigned, frustrated, etc.? It is important for you to consider that while a play in manuscript form is made up of words on a page, the stage is a physical and visual space that must be filled and kept interesting through props, costume, movement, activity, vocal character, lighting, and sound.

Dialogue

When you read a play, particularly a contemporary one like A Raisin in the Sun or Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, chances are you find the dialogue similar to everyday speech, which is casual, colloquial, and conversational. If so, the playwright is doing a good job at giving you the illusion that dialogue is like the daily conversa- tions each of us has. Actually, good dialogue is distilled speech and is structured so that it consistently contributes to the creation or resolution of conflict, moving the action of the play forward, or enlightening us about character. What might appear to you as mere transposition of speech from a tape recorder to the page is actually a craft that requires a keen sense of language and its rhythms. A playwright may very well write and rewrite a play many times until he or she gets it right. One playwright, in a humorous mood, once offered a $10,000 reward for anyone who could show him a tape recorder that recorded dramatic dialogue from real life.

Read the following dialogue from The Rising of the Moon by Lady Gregory, and consider how it contributes to the drama:

POLICEMAN B: I think this would be a good place to put up a notice. [He points to barrel.]

POLICEMAN X: Better ask him. [Calls to SERGEANT.] Will this be a good place for a placard?

[No answer.]

POLICEMAN B: Will we put up a notice here on the barrel?

[No answer.]

SERGEANT: There’s a flight of steps here that leads to the water. This is a place that should be minded well. If he got down there, his friends might have a boat to meet him; they might send it in here from outside.

POLICEMAN B: Would the barrel be a good place to put a notice up? SERGEANT: It might; you can put it there.

[They pass the notice up.]

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SERGEANT: [Reading it.] Dark hair—dark eyes, smooth face, height five feet five—there’s not much to take hold of in that—It’s a pity I had no chance of seeing him before he broke out of gaol. They say he’s a wonder, that it’s he makes all the plans for the whole organization. There isn’t another man in Ireland would have broken gaol the way he did. He must have some friends among the gaolers.

POLICEMAN B: A hundred pounds is little enough for the Government to offer for him. You may be sure any man in the force that takes him will get promotion.

SERGEANT: I’ll mind this place myself. I wouldn’t wonder at all if he came this way.

In only a few sentences, this dialogue establishes a number of important dramatic issues. It establishes the locale. It provides us an understanding of the characters’ motivations for their actions. It sets up the mood since the police reveal through their observations that they are in a strange part of the city, making their actions tentative. Their subordinate relationship to the sergeant, their supervisor, is established. Note too that there are pauses in the dialogue when the two police call and the sergeant does not respond. What do you think is implied by the fact that the sergeant does not re- spond? How do the pauses contribute to the mood? Anton Chekhov, the great Russian playwright, used pauses in the dialogue to great psychologi- cal effect, as did the modern playwright Samuel Beckett, notably in Krapp’s Last Tape.

Another function of a play’s dialogue is exposition, which refers to the explanation or description of action, events, or people that are not revealed to us directly. So, for example, without even directly showing the fugitive the police are seeking in The Rising of the Moon, Lady Gregory, the play- wright, informs us what he looks like when the sergeant reads the “wanted” poster. We also learn—without seeing—the fact that the water is close, providing a likely means for escape. What other things does exposi- tion in the dialogue tell you? Unlike short stories and novels, where the narrator can describe events that have happened in the past or make you privy to the thoughts of a character, plays have only dialogue to serve these functions. A good playwright will interweave exposition into what is being said without your being aware of it. One exercise you might try to gain a better sense of the playwright’s art is to study the way he or she employs exposition.

As stated before, dialogue is not merely recorded speech, yet critics often speak of a playwright as “having an ear” for dialogue. This usually means that the author seems to have a talent for imitating the tone, the rhythms of speech, and the regional and/or class dialects of the people he is portraying. Thus, while Cutler, Toledo, Slow Drag, and Levee are characters in a play, August Wilson’s talent for rendering regional accents, dialect, and slang allows skilled actors to take what these characters say on the page and make it come alive, giving you the impression of real people.

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Theme

Theme is as slippery a topic in talking about drama as it is for any genre of lit- erature. For it asks the questions, “What does the play mean?” or “What is the author trying to say?” Understanding the theme or themes of a play seen on a stage may be even more difficult than deciphering the meaning of other forms of literature, since often you will be emotionally carried along by the action, whereas in a novel or short story, you can always pause and consider the sig- nificance of what you have read. Although there is no hard and fast rule, it is perhaps in understanding theme that reading a play may have an advantage over seeing a play.

Sometimes the title of a play can offer a clue to its theme, as do the titles A Doll’s House, A Raisin in the Sun, and The Rising of the Moon. (Note too that the latter two titles have images that have been traditionally used as symbols.) The phrase “a raisin in the sun” is from a poem by Langston Hughes that de- plores the betrayal of the promise to provide African Americans with equal rights; the phrase “rising of the moon” suggests an awakening of what is often repressed or suppressed from consciousness, the moon being a symbol in many cultures of the hidden aspect of human nature.

In Hansberry’s play, you will find enacted among the characters the fight to achieve racial justice and the outcome of this fight for one family. In Lady Gregory’s play, you find the Sergeant’s attitude transform from one of an offi- cious civil servant to a humane individual who gets in touch with his early roots and values. Thus The Rising of the Moon can be taken to be a statement about the suppression of the Irish independence movement as symbolized through the encounter between the Sergeant and the Ragged Man. The term “doll” as used in doll’s house has meanings that go beyond the literal meaning of a child’s plaything. In Ibsen’s play, Nora seems to be treated as a doll by her husband, and her rebellion at the end is her escape from this unflattering and demeaning role.

Titles aside, themes in plays can be inferred through the study of other im- ages, actions, and statements, particularly when they recur. When you read a play, be aware of such repetitions, and see if there seems to be a common thread that stitches them together. By this method you may be able to inter- pret motifs in what you read or see to more general or universal pronounce- ments about the human condition. Critics have noted the importance of Lena Younger’s (Mama) plants in A Raisin in the Sun and interpret them as symbols for the determined survival of the Younger family. Other critics make much of the tape recorder in Krapp’s Last Tape, suggesting that it represents the human experience, which is merely a playing out of what has already been recorded by consciousness, providing the dim view that humans have little say in deter- mining their destinies.

To appreciate the full dimension of what you read, and to find hooks that can provide topics for discussion or writing, look for recurring motifs and character transformations in plays. These will more than likely lead you to dis- covering a play’s theme.

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INTERPRETING DRAMA

Interpreting plays, like interpreting other works of literature, is an elusive task. You, like your classmates, and readers in general, come to the specific work with your own background, prejudices, viewpoints, and attitudes. In addition, the time you live in, the place you live in, your cultural heritage: all have an im- pact on the meaning you extract from literature. To give just one superficial ex- ample, a salesman, after seeing a performance of Arthur Miller’s play Death of a Salesman, is reported to have said to his wife, “I always said the Northeast was a lousy sales territory.” Whether his pragmatic response to the play was of the sort Miller wanted audience members to have is doubtful; yet, there are many possible valid interpretations of a play, not the one true interpretation.

Dramatic literature, perhaps more than other forms of literature, should make this indeterminate aspect of interpretation evident, since most plays are meant to be performed. Thus, even the performance of a play will alter the play’s import, being influenced by the director’s and actors’ visions. Another aspect of plays which makes interpretation problematic is the fact that most plays that have lasting appeal are complex works of art, just as is the case with other forms of literature. Therefore, to tease out the meaning from what you read is not as simple as finding the right answer on a multiple choice test. It is rather like deciphering a secret code or putting together the pieces of a puzzle.

Since it is probably impossible to actually prove that your interpretation is the right one, it is better to think of interpretation as an argument, that is, as a statement that you will try to back up with evidence from what you have read or seen. And since plays that stand the test of time tend to be complex, it is perhaps better to develop an argument that addresses one aspect of a play rather than the entire play itself. Another reason for limiting your interpreta- tion of a play is that if you select too broad an interpretation, it may be diffi- cult to include all that you need to support your interpretation in a college- length paper. For example, consider the following interpretation of Miller’s Death of a Salesman: “Death of a Salesman shows the tragic consequences of tak- ing at face value the traditional concepts of ‘the American dream’ without questioning or considering their merits.” While this interpretation is valid, it would be nearly impossible to discuss all the pertinent evidence that exists in the play that supports this theme, since the play is replete with images, dia- logue, description, and relationships that advance it.

In reading a play carefully, try to find particular speeches, images, sym- bols, or statements that present a means of interpreting a particular aspect of the play. For example, character is one aspect of a play that deserves special attention, and to which interpretation can bring fruitful results. You may wish to select a character that interests you, intrigues you, or seems to possess a special quality that may be overlooked by a superficial reading of the play. Take for example one student who read August Wilson’s play Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Intrigued by the character of Toledo, he reread the text focusing on Toledo’s relationships with the other band members, his philosophical

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statements and observations, and his action during the course of the play. He was particularly intrigued by a speech of his early in Act I:

TOLEDO: See, now . . . I’ll tell you something. As long as the colored man look to white folks to put the crown on what he say . . . as long as he looks to white folks for approval . . . then he ain’t never gonna find out who he is and what he’s about. He’s just gonna be about what white folks want him to be about. That’s one sure thing.

Reviewing the play, the student then highlighted Toledo’s dialogue and found a pattern that seemed to bear out the idea that Toledo was revealing certain truths about the African American’s dilemma in America, and that in a sense he becomes a martyr whose truth cannot be accepted by the other mem- bers of the band, and thus is killed in the end for his beliefs.

EVALUATING DRAMA

You may interpret the meaning of a play, the significance of a character, the function of setting, and the like, without ever engaging in probably the most common form of writing about drama: evaluating. Theater critics, whether writing for newspapers like The New York Times, magazines like Newsweek, tel- evision news shows, or radio primarily engage in evaluation. That is, while they may describe and summarize a play, their ultimate purpose is to relate to their audiences the quality of the play, whether it is a masterpiece, a terrible travesty of dramatic art, or something in between.

When you evaluate a play, you may not reach a large audience, but you will, at the least, help hone your own critical abilities, and develop for yourself a sense of what makes or does not make for good dramatic literature. Ulti- mately, evaluation is a subjective affair, but there are certain guidelines that can help you appreciate the quality of a play, whether or not you agree with its message.

The first thing you might do is ask yourself a series of questions that can guide you into understanding why you like or dislike a play. If it moves you emotionally, why? If you identify with the characters, which ones, and why? Even if the world of the play is foreign to you, that is, takes place at another time, in another culture, or among a class of people you are unfamiliar with, ask your- self whether you find any similarities between the world of the characters and the world you yourself have experienced or could imaginatively experience.

Once you’ve established your own relationship to the play, you have a base from which you may use more abstract criteria in your evaluation. Earlier in this chapter, continuous action was described as being an essential part of most drama. Does the action in the play you have read seem coherent and uni- fied? Most students of literature find coherence and unity important character- istics in determining the quality of a work of literature. If a character acts in a way that seems foreign or implausible to his or her nature, the chances are that the playwright has not fleshed out his conception of just who the character is.

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Since plays are nearly all dialogue, one important aspect of evaluating a play is the extent to which the dialogue sounds true. Do the characters speak as if they were real people? Can you distinguish their class, culture, age, and personality from the way they speak? Does the dialogue seem to imitate the rhythms of speech? If the answers to these questions are in the negative, they may have a bearing on the quality of the play.

Universality of appeal is another criterion upon which to evaluate a play. Why is it that plays written over 2,000 years ago—for example, Oedipus Rex or Lysistrata—are still read and performed today? More than likely it is because the issues that these plays raise are still of concern to contemporary audiences. Or take for example plays that seem to cross cultures successfully. Death of a Salesman was translated into Chinese and successfully performed in China, a country that does not even have the profession of salesman. Still, audiences found the play pertinent to their lives. Other issues to consider are whether the play presents its world in an interesting, complex, and original fashion. Most people would agree that the world is a complex place with multidimen- sional challenges. If a play reflects this world, it could hardly do so by being simplistic. Thus, in evaluating a play, another issue to consider is whether the world it depicts addresses the complexity of life. If it lacks this dimension, chances are the play will fade quickly away in your mind, whereas a play re- plete with ideas will be one you can turn to again and again, only to discover more intriguing issues about its characters, meaning, and significance.

Nonetheless, two individuals using all these criteria can come to radically different evaluations about a play, as the following excerpts from reviews of two well-known drama critics reveal. Both were responses to a Lorraine Hans- berry (author of A Raisin in the Sun) play entitled Les Blancs. The first is by John Simon writing in New York Magazine:

. . . The result is unmitigated disaster. Les Blancs (the very French title in what is clearly a British African colony testifies to the utter confusion) is not only the worst new play on Broadway, of an amateurishness and crudity unrelieved by its sophomoric stabs at wit, it is also, more detestably, a play finished—or fin- ished off—by white liberals that does its utmost to justify the slaughter of whites by blacks. . . . It is a malodorous, unenlightening mess.

The second is by Walter Kerr, writing for The New York Times:

I urge you to see Lorraine Hansberry’s . . . ranging, quick-witted, ruefully savage examination of the state of the African mind today. . . . Virtually all of Les Blancs is there on the stage, vivid, stinging, intellectually alive, and what is there is mature work, ready to stand without apology alongside the com- pleted work of our best craftsmen. The language in particular is so unmistak- ably stage language that . . . it achieves an internal pressure, a demand that you listen to it, that is quite rare on our stages today.

If professional critics can differ so radically in their evaluation of a play, you should rely on your own taste, informed by your growing knowledge of fic- tion, poetry, and drama, when judging any work of literature.

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The iDeal Reader Ishmael Reed, ‘‘The C Above High C’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Ishmael Reed (b. 1938) writes essays, criticism, poetry, songs, and novels, in addition to plays.His latest book, Blues City: A Walk in Oakland (2003), is a collection of essays. Reed is also the editor of two magazines, Konch and Vines; the latter is written by college students. Among many other awards and honors, Reed has won a MacArthur (“genius”) Fellowship. Reed has taught at Harvard and Yale, and has been a fixture in UC Berkeley’s English Department since 1968. The C Above C Above High C premiered at the Nuyorican Poets Café in lower Manhattan in April 1997 and was first published in The Antioch Review in the summer of 1999.

R The C Above C Above High C

Ishmael Reed

ACT ONE

Scene 1

Dressing room of Louis Armstrong. Photos of Armstrong on the mirror. A table with bot- tles of mineral water, etc. Off-stage, we hear the final strains of Louis Armstrong singing, playing a high C tune followed by applause. Shortly Armstrong enters. He is dressed in a tuxedo and carries his trumpet covered by a handkerchief. He is sweating, grinning fiercely, but then changes to a serious look. Removes his tuxedo jacket and drapes it over a chair, facing the mirror. Sits down. Looks into the mirror. He begins to slowly dab cream on his face and doesn’t stop until his face is white.

armstrong: It’s gettin’ harder and harder to get control of this grin.

Makes several types of grins.

One day it’s going to leave and take off to the next gig. One day I won’t be able to turn it off and turn it on so easily.

Removes his black tie, shirt. Wears an undershirt and puts on his stocking cap. Studies his face in the mirror. Rubs his jaw, etc. Turns grin on and off.

My face doesn’t belong to me anymore. The public sees one face. The record companies see another. My Lucille doesn’t even see me, and my agent only sees money.

Joe Glaser’s assistant enters—Gloria, a black woman of about forty, smartly dressed and groomed.

gloria: We did it tonight, Pops. The place was packed. People could hardly get in.

Counting money.

Wait till Mr. Glaser sees all of this green. He will be so pleased. armstrong: (Down) Good. gloria: What’s wrong? You don’t seem all that excited.

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Armstrong continues to apply cream to his face.

armstrong: These little school children in Little Rock are gettin’ bricks thrown at them. Just for trying to go to school. That little girl, Elizabeth, was attacked by that mob of hyenas. (Slide) These kids are being spat upon. And the only thing on my mind is whether I can hit a higher C on my trumpet than before.

Gloria approaches him and places her hands on his shoulders. Massages them.

gloria: You’re doing your part, Pops. You’re loved by millions of people. Both the white and the coloreds buy your music.

armstrong: But the Beboppers are calling me an Uncle Tom.

They freeze. Bebopper in spotlight. Has a goatee, wears a beret, dark glasses. A fast, scratchy Fats Navarro piece is on the soundtrack. The bopper begins to move his feet around in a bop dance. Music stops.

bopper: (Arrogant, jive) That old Uncle Tom shit that Louis Armstrong plays is embarrassing. The man has no velocity. He doesn’t know about chord changes. He can’t give you the theory upon which his music is based. All the dude is doing is play- ing blackface orphan home march music. That’s where that hokey tuba sound comes from. And the banjo. An anachronism. A quaint remnant of plantation life. Only squares listen to Pops now. We’re all listening to Prez, Bird, and Monk. He can’t stand it. He can’t challenge us so he calls us names. Like in that whippoorwill song. He greets the world with a watermelon grin.

Mocks Armstrong’s grin. He goes dark.

armstrong: Maybe they’re right. gloria: Don’t listen to them, Pops. They don’t get half the audiences or the

money that you get. A lot of them are crazy too, or, at least idiosyncratic. What’s that one they call Thelonious Monk? One strange Negro. Act like he on something. And that evil little black one named Dewey Davis. He turns his back on the audience and goes around beating up people.

armstrong: (Grinning) I’m not that kind of person. I see my mission as bring- ing people together. The black and white. The yellows and the browns. When I go abroad, warring factions drop their weapons. They come to where I’m playing and party together. This wonderful music that the Lord has given us—I want to spread it around. People break into smiles when they hear my music. It washes out all of that hate from their heart. You know, a lot of my fans are doctors. One of them said that there are killer cells that attack the ones that are viral. He said that the music I play kicks in the killer cells and these killer cells start fightin’ them evil ones. Something like that. He said that my music builds up the (hesitantly) immunity. He said that I was a healer. Now take that Bebop. Ever go to a Bebop club? The first thing you notice is that the people are unhappy. Nobody smiles. The musicians look scruffy, bumified. They wear shiny pants and sometimes they don’t even wear a tie. We all keep our shoes shined and our creases starched. (Slide) A tradition that goes back to old Jelly Roll. Well, anyway, the doctor says that the killer cells get confused when

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they hear that music. They can’t go to war against the enemy. That’s why the fans and the musicians of Bebop look sickly. That’s why they die young.

gloria: Lucille called while you were onstage. armstrong: I’ll call her. She must feel lonely stuck out in that house in Queens.

Do you think that I will have a chance to at least spend a weekend with her? gloria: Exactly one weekend next month to spend with Lucille. After that you

take off for England. The Royal Family is asking for a command performance. Here are the new contracts that just came in from Capitol Records. Mr. Glaser wants you to sign in all of the places that I’ve checked off.

Armstrong sighs, then begins to sign.

armstrong: Why don’t Glaser come down himself anymore?

Silence. Armstrong pauses, then speaks angrily. Answer me. Don’t you hear me talking to you, woman?

gloria: Louis. Something’s happening to him. He says that he won’t come within ten feet of you.

armstrong: Why? gloria: Says that white people who come near you turn black. Says he’s seen

it happen. armstrong: That Joe Glaser is losing his grip. That’s the most ridiculous thing

I’ve heard. But then again, who knows. I often wonder why God made me so black and blue. All of my life. Maybe being that makes me special. Maybe there is a mis- sion for those whose skin is the color of the cosmos. Whose colors contain all colors. Who better to unite the world? I read somewhere that most of the universe is com- posed of dark matter, yet they’re always calling us a minority.

gloria: Louis, what are you talking about? Louis, have you been smokin’ that weed again?

armstrong: Smoking reefer helps me to get through another day in the United States of America.

gloria: (Sighs) Look, I have to go. You and the group should meet me in the morning at the airport. I have the tickets. (She exits)

armstrong: (Takes a drag) Reefer is mellow. It was a recreational drug for artists in the 20s and 30s. But then, after the war, they brought that heroin. The gangsters would give the best of the singers and musicians spots. We could have a gig, jam. But then those heroin people came on the scene, people with no class and no taste took over the clubs. There was heroin before, but then it was the Jews who sold it. Only the rich could afford it. But then the Italians took over. They’re the ones who intro- duced needles. They brought a cheaper variety into Harlem. It went over big with these young Bebop musicians. Guys waking up in the alley with vomit all over their clothes. Robbing their relatives and their best friends. Shitting blood. These Bop musicians—if they ain’t on the bandstand they’re in the emergency room. And that one they call Bird. He’s a bad example for these youngsters. People think that just because a person’s a genius they should be given license to do whatever they desire. What about that wicked genius, Hitler. These white critics are calling him

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the Alto saxophone great. He should be called an Overdose Great. The Pied Piper of Death. New York Jazz is a big mistake. The players have left the melody. Have left the dance. What was that word the scholar who’s writing about me said. Nihilism. New York Jazz is nihilistic.

Scene 2

Bedroom of the Shoreham Hotel in downtown Washington. A king-sized bed. Above it hangs a portrait of George Washington. Dwight Eisenhower wakes up screaming. Sits up. He is wearing longjohns. The woman lying in bed is Kay Summersby. She is a middle- aged red-head and very handsome. She is wearing a fancy slip.

summersby: (Irish brogue) Ike, what’s wrong? eisenhower: I had a dream that it was the year 2000. That China had the world’s

largest economy and that Africa was moving up. Maybe Douglas MacArthur was right. Maybe we should have nuked China.

She begins to hug Eisenhower’s back.

summersby: Ike, it was just a dream. Ike, last night was so lovely. I was always amazed that a warrior like you could be so gentle in bed.

Ike kisses her hands. He gets out of bed and begins to change into a golf outfit. Golf bag is leaning against the wall.

And then toward the climax, the way you—you stormed my Normandy Beach riding the crests of my waves.

eisenhower: Would you like more champagne?

She holds out her glass. He pours. Then pours himself one. They toast.

To our love. May it always be as scintillating as champagne.

They drink. They stare into each other’s eyes longingly, put down their glasses and kiss passionately.

summersby: Remember the champagne we had after the German surrender? The best champagne in Reims.

eisenhower: Afterwards we had that buffet supper at the Dorchester Hotel. Then the theatre.

summersby: That was the first time you’d eaten in a restaurant in three years. You were mobbed. All of those well-wishers.

eisenhower: Yeah. The response of the people. It made all of the hell I had to go through worth it. The quarrels with Montgomery and Patton. (Slides) The setbacks. And all of those youngsters killed.

He lights up a cigarette.

That’s what always depressed me. Every time I had an opportunity, I’d visit the cemeteries. Pay my respects. You know. I was known as a general who was not only after victories but the welfare of my soldiers. That was always uppermost in my mind.

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Video news report about American POWs abandoned by Eisenhower administration.

summersby: It had to be done, Ike. Just think how the world would be under Hitler, that—that racist. The presidency must be boring next to being the Allies’ Supreme Commander.

eisenhower: I ran because I thought I could do some good. It’s not as demand- ing as leading the Allies. I have a good staff. Things are run smoothly. Except

summersby: Except what, Ike? eisenhower: The Negroes. They want to go to school with white kids. The

southerners are good people. (Slide) They don’t want their children going to school with some big overgrown Negroes.

She recoils. Black woman appears. Could be the same one who plays Gloria.

woman: When I was a little girl, my mother and I saw a lynch mob dragging the body of a Negro man through the streets of Little Rock, Arkansas. We were told to get off the streets. We ran. And by cutting through side streets and alleys, we man- aged to make it to the home of a friend. But we were close enough to hear the screams of the mob, close enough to smell the sickening odor of burning flesh. That was 1927. Little Rock.

summersby: Ike, what are you saying? That it’s okay for blacks to fight against bigotry in Europe, but it’s wrong for them to do it here?

eisenhower: It just won’t work, Kay. It’ll not only handicap the black kids, but the poor whites as well. Why I talked to this man Arthur Krock. A big man at the New York Times. He told me in private that he didn’t want to send his kids to school with Negroes either, and he’s a big liberal.

summersby: I don’t believe you, Ike. I thought that we fought to rid the world of racial hatred and anti-Semitism.

eisenhower: Oh, Kay—that’s your Irish talking. We treat the Negroes well. They’re a helluva lot better off here than in Africa, Kay. I even have one of them working for me. Look, I have to go.

Silence

summersby: Ike. (Hesitant) How’s Mamie doing? eisenhower: She’s in a bad way. There’s no peace at home. She hasn’t been

the same since she saw that picture of you and me in that theatre box seat. She takes a drink in the morning and doesn’t stop until she’s dead drunk. She has to go to these Midwest spas to dry out. I think that she hates me. We haven’t had sex since the . . . since she had that . . . that, er, female operation. She still thinks that I was respon- sible for our son, John, becoming a soldier. She thinks that all soldiers are sluts.

During the war she wrote me a letter about the loose morals of the American army in Europe. She thinks men start wars as an excuse to establish traveling whore- houses and to engage in exotic sex.

summersby: We didn’t mean to hurt her. It’s just this love between us is so mighty, so powerful, we couldn’t help ourselves, Ike. (Long kiss)

eisenhower: Goodbye, Kay.

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She stretches out her arms.

summersby: Ike.

He approaches her. They begin to dance to Glenn Miller’s “Starlight.” Spotlight on Mamie Eisenhower while they’re dancing. She glares at them, her arms folded. Speaks to audience.

mamie: She checked in here under an assumed name. The Shoreham Hotel. Hotels are where these men do all of their dirty work. Meeting their whores. He kept me locked up in a hotel for two years while he was away in Europe with this woman. I used to be so attractive. (Slide) I sacrificed myself for this man. He couldn’t afford me. He’s always broke. They wanted to pay him some good money to do his biogra- phy. The fool turned it down. I could have had any man in Texas. My date book was filled. I had my own maid and a generous allowance. I gave it up to become an army wife. Went from pheasant under glass to chicken livers and rice. I could have had a career. Instead, Ike became my career. We married in 1916. Moved thirty-nine times. We didn’t have a home we could call our own until 1952. He was nothing but a rube when I met him. Farm boy. Didn’t even know what a soup spoon was and thought that a bidet was a bird’s bath. I had to teach him the social graces.

Ike and Kay are talking, but we don’t hear them. He puts his cap on and kisses Kay on the cheek.

Had to polish his English. West Point couldn’t take Kansas out of this hayseed.

Kay puts on a W.A.C. uniform and begins to apply make-up in front of the hotel’s mirror. Lil Armstrong enters. Tall, smartly dressed, intellectual type. Victorian-blouse, hip velvet suit, granny shoes.

lil armstrong: I know what you’re going through, Mamie. mamie: Who are you, the hotel maid?

Kay embraces herself and begins to whirl about in happiness. Lil glares at Mamie.

lil : Hotel maid! You white women are all alike. Think that all a sister can do for you is your laundry and your floors.

mamie: Just asking. lil: I was married to Louis Armstrong. mamie: Oh, yes. I have some of his records. Can’t play them while Ike is home.

Know what his favorite songs are? lil: What are they? mamie: “God Bless America” and “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Lil laughs. Mamie keeps her glum expression throughout.

lil: Well, Louis had better taste, but he and Ike had one thing in common. mamie: What’s that—I didn’t get your name. lil: Lil. Lil Hardin.

Kay puts on a coat and leaves the hotel room.

And who may she be?

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mamie: My husband’s whore. Kay Summersby. lil: Spindly little thing. mamie: You think so? lil: Flat as roadkill. mamie: Well, these men and their wars. Gives them an excuse to stay on the

road. They meet women and pour out their souls to these tramps. lil: You’re not telling me anything. I practically created Louis. When he came

to Joe Oliver’s band, he didn’t even know how to wear a hat.

J. Edgar Hoover enters the room and begins to take photos of the bed, etc.

Wore his hair in that odious New Orleans style. Those ugly bangs.

Sees Mamie’s bangs.

I’m sorry, I mamie: (Relaxes) Forget about it. I was thinking of getting a different style. lil: Well, I had to teach Louis, the way you had to teach Ike. When he came up

from New Orleans he was just a sack of remains with a trumpet. mamie: That bad? What happened? lil: Got turned out by one of these green-eyed creole vampires. Everybody told

him not to marry this crazy bitch. When they were courting she’d do evil things like make love to him while knowing full well that her boyfriend would walk in at any moment. Louis barely escaped one encounter. She was a real wildcat. Liked to fight men. She’d even fight the police. They were together four years, going back and forth between the bedroom and attempted murder. Kind of woman who carried a razor. Her name was Daisy, but it should have been Venus. As in Venus’s-flytrap. Louis was the fly who got stuck.

mamie: How did she get rid of him? lil: Well, Louis never knew his father, and the only thing his mother taught him

was how to hold his liquor. Doesn’t it tell you something about his relationship with her that his most vivid memory is of him and his mother carousing the bars and falling down drunk in the streets? So he adopted Joe Oliver as his father. Joe got Louis to leave New Orleans for Chicago. He worshipped Joe. But I found out that Joe was stealing money from Louis and the other band members. I hipped Louis to that and he still wanted to stay with Joe. Louis didn’t know how good he was. When he first started hitting those high Cs he didn’t know what he was doing. I had to play it on the piano to show him what he was doing. It was because of me that he left Joe Oliver’s band and went to New York to work with Fletcher Henderson. We broke up.

mamie: Why? lil: I was always independent. I played in bands when I was a teenager. Could

write music and I could play piano as well any man. I was playing in these bands with men who were my inferiors. They’d never let me play solo. All they wanted was to get into my pants. Louis wanted a mother. If he could, he’d have married Mayaan.

mamie: Who was Mayaan? lil: His mother. Then he married another woman purely for sex. She was a pros-

titute like his mother. Her name was Daisy. mamie: You sound like a woman of good upbringing. Why did you marry him?

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lil: I’ve asked myself that. Here I was, educated at Fisk. I thought that it may have been a rebellion against my mother. We fought all the time. She hated jazz. If it were only that simple. What about you and Ike?

mamie: Our grandmothers and mothers told us that we should be helpmates. I never thought anything different. The biggest compliment Ike made to his mother, Ida, was that she was a wonderful helpmate.

lil: What’s that man doing?

Hoover, in drag, is still creeping around the hotel room, emptying drawers, etc.

mamie: Oh, that’s J. Edgar Hoover. He’s blackmailed everybody in Washington. He was the first to know that Kay was registering in the hotel under an assumed name.

lil: I didn’t know that he was black. mamie: Oh, everybody knows it. He’s never been accepted as a white man. He

says it’s a tan, but we all know better. Nobody talks about it. They’re scared. He’s ruined people. You’d be surprised the people he’s spied on.

lil: Who, who? mamie: You know that pompous ass, Douglas MacArthur. lil: Who hasn’t heard of General MacArthur. (Mockingly) “I Shall Return.” mamie: “Old Soldiers Never Die.” lil: “They just live to testify.”

They both laugh.

mamie: (Whispers to Lil) MacArthur was screwing this Chinese teenager into bad health. Edgar knew and so did Drew Pearson.

lil: Douglas MacArthur! mamie: The same.

She sees the champagne that Kay and Ike have left behind in a bucket next to the bed. Mamie walks over, lifts the bottle.

What you say we finish this off? lil: Why not?

She walks over to where Mamie is standing. Mamie pours herself a glass of champagne, then pours Lil one. They sit on the bed and quietly begin to sip. We hear Lil Armstrong on piano in the background.

mamie: Lil, how does that expression go? Behind every great man is a woman. lil: Should be, Behind every great man there’s a chump.

Scene 3

Three people wearing ski masks hold signs that say Basta Auslander, Invasione Africaine, Keep Central High White, Nigerians Out of Zimbabwe. Dark on them. Slide of Central High School. A Governor Faubus speech could be used here.

newscaster: The crisis at Little Rock’ Central High School continues. Governor Faubus (slide) continues to defy a court order that Negro students be admitted to classes. A mob is building up and sporadic outbreaks of violence are being reported.

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Famed trumpeter Louis Armstrong has said that President Eisenhower should show some guts, go to Little Rock and escort the children into the school. (Incredulous) Louis Armstrong?

Three whites reappear on stage wearing ski masks and carrying signs bearing racial epithets.

ACT TWO

Scene 1

Dressing room. Joe Glaser and Armstrong. Joe Glaser is a middle-aged Jewish man. Wears a modest suit. Has an easy-going manner.

glaser: (Keeping his distance) Are you out of your mind, Louis? Since when have you been so political?

armstrong: It just came out. Before I could do anything, I had said it. It just came out. (Mumbles)

Well, it accomplished one thing. It got you down here. glaser: Look at all of these cancellations. (Waves papers) armstrong: There comes a time when all of us have to take a stand. glaser: What’s come over you, Louis, where is the grinning, lovable, clown-

ing Louis that the world has begun to demand? (Seeing that he has hurt him) Look, I’m sorry, I apologize.

armstrong: You needn’t. That’s what people expect. But this is different. When I saw that Faubus prevent those children from entering that school in Little Rock, and the children being threatened by that mob of ignorant crackers, something came over me. I had to say something. And that cat Eisenhower. Let that joker Faubus defy him.

Glaser has a concerned look.

Is there anything wrong? glaser: I didn’t want to bring this up, but ever since you blurted out that remark,

three goyische have been following us. They were on the plane down here to Washington and I noticed them in the hotel.

armstrong: Who could they be? glaser: I think it’s the feds. Look, I tried to get you an interview with

Eisenhower, but his staff has nixed the idea. They said you could see Nixon when you’re in Washington next week. That’s better than nothing. Maybe that will take some of the heat off. People are criticizing you. Sammy Davis, that young colored dancer, criticized you. Look, I got to go.

armstrong: One minute. glaser: What is it, Louis? armstrong: Why are you standing way over there? glaser: I—I armstrong: Afraid that you will turn black? glaser: I’m sorry, Louis, but I’ve seen it happen. Take that Teagarden fellow.

(Slide) You got him talking and acting like a black man. I’m already a Jew. To be that and a black, too. I’m sorry Louis, but I ain’t takin’ no chances.

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Glaser exits. Pause.

armstrong: Sammy Davis, Jr., criticizing me, huh. Feds on my ass. That son- of-a-bitch Hoover—I know all about it. My mob contacts tell me that they have a photo of him making love to another man. He hangs out with Frank Costello and dresses like a gangster. He put his hands on me and there will be riots all over the world. They say they want me to go to the Soviet Union. Put my black face out there to show how liberal we are. Well, I ain’t going nowhere. They can cancel the trip. They can send that no-playin’ Benny Goodman in my place.

Scene 2

Map room of the White House. A large map of the Pacific with notes scribbled on it indi- cate World War II zones of combat. Ike is waiting for J. Edgar Hoover to arrive. Ike is dressed in his golf outfit and is practicing some putts. Nathaniel, a black man, is pouring him a cup of coffee. Nathaniel then returns to his position against the wall. J. Edgar Hoover enters. He is a dark-skinned, short, rotund black man wearing womens’ clothes.

hoover: I didn’t want to show you this material in the Oval Office, Mr. President. Who knows, the phone might be tapped.

eisenhower: Of course, J. Edgar, I understand. What’s on your mind? hoover: This Louis Armstrong. He’s leading the blacks in some kind of revolt. eisenhower: You don’t say?

Eisenhower is swinging his golf club.

hoover: I’ve been watching him closely, Mr. President; he’s a clever one, all right. Take that song “Dinah,” for example.

Eisenhower stops swinging. Scratches his head. Gives Hoover a curious look.

Listen to this, Mr. President.

Puts the record on and plays a couple of choruses of Armstrong singing.

eisenhower: I rather like that version. hoover: You don’t get it, General. He’s not singing it the way it goes.

Sings: “Dinah, the sweetest in Carolina.”

No, he’s singing it a different way. He’s singing in some kind of code. He’s send- ing a message to the Negroes. Telling them to rise up and kill white people.

eisenhower: You don’t say. hoover: General, will you put down that golf club and listen?

Eisenhower glares at him.

Ah—Mr. President, I need your permission to wiretap his phone. We already have a couple of men tailing him. You heard what he said. Said that you ought to take those black children into the school down there, personally take them by the hand.

eisenhower: He said that, J. Edgar?

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hoover: That’s not all he said, Mr. Eisenhower. One of our men overheard one of his sidemen call your mother a Negro and said that you were passing for white. A lot of Negroes believe that.

eisenhower: (Laughs) That’s a new one. I’ve been called a Jew by the Taft peo- ple, a communist by McCarthy’s people, and now a Negro.

hoover: He said that you lacked guts. eisenhower: (Angry) What? hoover: After we finish with him, he won’t have such a smart dippermouth. eisenhower: Dippermouth? hoover: That’s his nickname.

(Aide enters)

aide: Mr. President, may I speak to you in private?

They go to the side of the stage and begin animated conversation which we don’t hear. Phone rings. Hoover answers.

hoover: Yeah—he stepped out of the room. . . . I think that we’ll get our tap on Louis. I’m prepared to tell him about the letter. The one he wrote to Marshall request- ing that he divorce Mamie and marry Kay Summersby—that’ll get him to play ball.

Hoover and Nat begin a staring contest as the conversation between the aide and Eisenhower is heard.

aide: But Mr. President, the situation is deteriorating. Every Klansman in Dixie is headed for Little Rock. The governor has abandoned his duties and become the mob leader. (Slide) We can’t assure the safety to those kids. Suppose one of them is killed. How would that look to the Russians and the Chinese?

eisenhower: (Angrily) I will never use soldiers against American citizens and that’s that. Now I have to get back to my meeting.

Aide exits with frustrated look.

You have my permission to monitor Armstrong’s phone, Edgar. If he is posing a threat to national security, then he has to be monitored.

hoover: (Smiling) Thanks, General. (Looks at watch) Well, I’ve got to get to the track. Don’t worry, Mr. President. We’ll take care of this Armstrong. By the way, how were the arrangements at the Shoreham? (Winks)

eisenhower: Er—um, fine. Fine, J. Edgar. hoover: Good.

Hoover exits.

eisenhower: How did he know about that, Nat? Did you tell him? nat: I’ve been working here for thirty years, Mr. President, and I’ve never

betrayed the confidence of a president. That Hoover is a wicked man. He knows about everybody in town and is a loathsome blackmailer. And the man’s own private life is degenerate. The man should be fired.

eisenhower: But how can I? He knows about me and Kay.

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nat: Unfortunately, that’s how he remains in power. Getting under peoples’ bed sheets. Like a piece of lice. And now he’s trying to destroy Louis Armstrong, one of the most beloved figures in the world of music.

eisenhower: But what about his calling me gutless? nat: Mr. President. Louis has done more for the image of the United States than

John Foster Dulles, a man whose very name inspires hate and contempt around the world. This nutty thing he has about massive retaliation. If somebody attacks us with A-bombs and we retaliate, it will blow up the world. Louis, on the other hand, is a gentle person. He’s our ambassador of goodwill. (Slide)

eisenhower: J. Edgar seems to think otherwise. nat: You should hear what Louis says. eisenhower: What Louis says. How can I find that out?

Nat goes out and brings Louis in.

What’s the meaning of this? nat: I brought him here, sir. He was down the hall meeting with Vice-President

Nixon. He wanted to see you, but your staff wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sure that this mis- understanding can be worked out. You two should talk. Get acquainted. You’ve only spent a total of forty-five minutes talking to black leaders since you took office.

Awkward silence.

eisenhower: Don’t we have a black member of the administration? nat: Fred Morrow. The man resigned from his good job at CBS when you invited

him to join the administration, and now he’s living on his savings. People here won’t even answer his calls. And that Alabaman Wilton B. Persons threatened a boycott if a Negro came to the White House in a capacity other than that of a butler.

eisenhower: (Embarrassed) I didn’t know. Maybe I’ll invite him to sit in my box at the baseball game. Well, Armstrong, what do you have to say for yourself?

armstrong: Mr. President, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. But those little children—it just made my blood boil when I saw them treated this way. The white man spitting on that child as she tried to enter the school. It made me mad. And then you allow this man to defy you. You have him call up the National Guard to stop those kids from entering school. Ike, are you going to let this moonshine-guzzling, barefoot redneck do this to you?

eisenhower: I can understand. But you know, Louis. I have to think of how his- tory is going to treat me. I’ve already reached the pinnacle. Why should I get into a pissing contest with some stupid southern governor? This fool Supreme Court and that Earl Warren—that liberal—they’ve just caused a lot of trouble for the good peo- ple of the South.

armstrong: They may be good to you, Mr. President, but my people have caught hell from these good people of the South. We can’t get booked in good hotels, and when my men have to go to the bathroom, they have to sneak and go do it in the bushes.

eisenhower: Is that so?

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armstrong: That ain’t all. They still have those nightriders. Roaming the coun- tryside. Foaming at the mouth. Terrorizing Negroes. A few months ago, some hill- billy exploded a bomb outside one of my concerts.

eisenhower: It takes time, Louis. You must have patience. Your people should go slow. The good decent people of the South will come around. Your people should use moral persuasion.

armstrong: We’ve tried all of that. Some use oratory. I use my trumpet. But my trumpet can do only so much. Sometimes, it takes the sword, General. Sometimes it takes more than moral persuasion.

eisenhower: I’d never use the bayonet against Americans. armstrong: Mr. President, I’m a musician and you’re a general. Both of us are

leaders of men. Both of us had mentors; yours was General Marshall, and mine was King Oliver. Both of us have to use tactics and strategies to accomplish our goals. We both try to accomplish what people in our fields never before reached. Every time I hit those higher registers on my trumpet, I believe that I’m going someplace where nobody’s ever been. That’s what you must do, Ike. Hit the high note of your career.

eisenhower: I’ve hit the highest of notes. I was the Supreme Commander of an army that scored one of the great victories of history. The presidency is a step down for me.

armstrong: That’s not what they say in Europe. They say that General Montgomery was—was

eisenhower: Go on. armstrong: They say that Montgomery could have won the war a year earlier

if it hadn’t been for your blunders. They say that you lost Berlin to the Russians. eisenhower: Goddamnit, who told you that? armstrong: (Grins) Don’t get excited, Ike. You know that I travel. People will

talk. The royal families of Europe have receptions for me which are attended by the high army brass of different countries. They gossip about the soldiers in Korea. The ones you left behind?

Sounds of combat. Eisenhower looks stunned, shaken.

eisenhower: How did you know about that? armstrong: Not much you can keep from Pops, General. My band performed

at a party for one of the higher-ups in your administration. The cat had a few cups and started shooting off at the mouth. He said that the North Koreans didn’t hand over all of the soldiers during the prisoner exchange at the end of the war. Said that they kept some behind, and that these men were sent to Russia and were exper- imented upon. He said that you knew about it, but kept quiet.

eisenhower: (Nervous, agitated) We had to do it. We had to sacrifice those men. We wanted to get the war over. It was the best that we could do. (Defensive) I told those clowns that we shouldn’t have gotten ourselves in a land war in Asia. You can’t beat those people on the ground. They came at us in human waves in Korea. Those Asians. They don’t give a rat’s ass about human lives. If we’d remained, there would have been more casualties.

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armstrong: People will talk, Ike. I’ve taken my lumps. Ever since I was a kid they talked about me. Said that I was a hoodlum.

eisenhower: Why would they call you that? armstrong: It was New Year’s Eve, January 1, 1913. I never will forget. I fired

some shots into the air. I was arrested and put in the Colored Waifs’ Home. eisenhower: That’s too bad. Your parents must have taken it real hard. armstrong: I got into trouble a lot when I was a kid, but I straightened up.

Playing the bugle. Got myself together. Had some real mentors in the home who taught me how to play.

eisenhower: Is that so? armstrong: I’ve been around the block, Ike. While you were living your apple

pie life in Abilene, I was gettin’ arrested for stealing newspapers. eisenhower: Apple pie, is it? Well, I’ll have you know that we lived from meal

to meal. My father, a good man, was constantly in debt. He was swindled. He spent the rest of his life paying off his bills. And my mother. She held the family together through the hard times. She taught me and my brothers discipline. Perseverance. We all have her smile.

armstrong: My mother stood by me, too. Mother always said to me, God bless her, “treat people nice and they will treat you nice.” You express that attitude nowa- days and you’re accused of groveling. Of kissing the behinds of the white public.

eisenhower: I’ve heard that said about you. I thought that you were reasonable, not like that hothead, Roy Wilkens.

armstrong: Yes, well, they may call me a tom, but I didn’t treat my people the way you did yours.

eisenhower: I don’t follow. armstrong: Your family came from Germany, from around the Rhine. Yet after

the war you starved hundreds of thousands of German prisoners even though you and they were of the same blood line. The way I look at it, you had internalized your self- hatred. You also made a deal with the French Nazis in Tunisia.

eisenhower: War is a dirty business. Sometimes you have to bargain with the devil.

armstrong: You’re a big hero now, but sooner or later history will catch up with you and she’ll not be kind. You have to stand by the kids down in Little Rock. Mr. President, why are you letting this Orville Faubus do to you what Mussolini and Hitler couldn’t do? Defeat you.

eisenhower: It’ll work out. armstrong: Ike, you’re a good man, but you’re getting the wrong advice. You’re

surrounded by evil. You know that Hoover likes black entertainment. Some of my buddies say that he sometimes comes to after-hours joints. Dressed up like a woman. Goes by the name of Mary. And that ain’t all. His black servants call him a soul brother and he’s always giving them the high-five.

eisenhower: Look, Louis. If you’re going to spread scurrilous rumors about people in my administration we can end this interview right now.

armstrong: Suit yourself, Ike. But eventually, I will get my high C. But will you get yours? History smiles upon you right now, but history is a fickle lover. It will

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turn on you. The people will eventually discover the real role that you played in the war. How you lost Berlin to the Russians. Your blunders. Your abandonment of the Korean P.O.W.s. The atrocities you inflicted upon unarmed German prisoners. All of it will come out, Ike. It’s not too late, Ike. It’s not too late to get your C above C above high C. One last deed that will seal your place in history as a great man. (Begins to exit)

eisenhower: Look, Louis. Before you leave, would you play something on your trumpet?

Armstrong plays “God Bless America,” one of Eisenhower’s favorite songs. At the con- clusion the two men stare at each other. Armstrong’s is more of a glare.

armstrong: (Dramatic pause) Do the right thing, Daddy. (He exits.)

Scene 3

Armstrong is alone on stage.

armstrong: That Eisenhower isn’t such a bad joe. Just a sad melancholy man. Couldn’t have the woman that he wanted. It’s like a knife in his soul. Took me a long time to find mine. Daisy. I almost ended up in the cemetery with that one. Lil. Man don’t like a woman talking back to him and second-guessing him. She was wearing the pants in the family. I liked them headstrong and high strung. But Lucille. Washes my clothes, feeds me, gives me sympathy when I’m having a bad day.

bebopper: Hey, Louis. Play something for me on that corny trumpet of yours, you square little black motherfucker.

Louis knocks him down, then helps him up.

armstrong: You okay, son? (Brushes him off) You know, you young boppers have wandered so far off that sometimes it becomes necessary for you to come in contact with the cold fist of reality. Let me share with you a proverb I learned in Africa last year. “The calves follow their mothers. The young plant grows up near the parent stem. The young antelope leaps where its mother has leaped.” The melody is the mother, son. That’s what you young musicians forget. Don’t ever go so far out in deep water that you can’t get back. And respect continuity, son. These critics have divided us. Interrupting a chain of tradition that reaches back to the rain forests of Africa. I teach you something. You pass it on to your generation. They pass it on to a future generation. I know that you boys think you’re doing something new, but if it wasn’t for me, and Joe Oliver, and Bunk Johnson, and Jelly Roll, and a whole bunch of other cats, you wouldn’t have your precious Bebop. Understand?

bebopper: Yessir, Mr. Armstrong. armstrong: Now go and get yourself cleaned up and then get back to practic-

ing your scales. bebopper: Yessir, Mr. Armstrong.

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Dark. Spotlight on newscaster.

newscaster: Fifty-two planeloads of C123s and C130s have brought 1200 battle- equipped paratroopers to Little Rock to see that integration is carried out at Central High School without further violence. Planeloads of the men of the 101st Airborne Division stationed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, started landing at Little Rock Air Force Base at 3:30 p.m. this afternoon, at half-hour intervals. The troop convoy is entering Little Rock to take up positions at Central High School.

Spotlight on Lucille Armstrong. Middle-aged. Wears apron. Domestic outfit. On the monitor we see a Cotton Club routine. Lucille imitates the dance that they are performing on the screen.

lucille: I still can do my kicks. Lonely. Maybe I should rent a studio. Get my routines in shape. No time for that. When you marry a public man you are placing yourself in a prison. Oh, the prison is nice. Furnished well. All of the amenities. But it’s still a prison. You can watch television to while away the time. You can sew or talk to neighbors. But ultimately you have a rival. This rival gives him more pleas- ure than what a woman can give. It’s easy to compete with those whores who are always throwing their arms around Louis. It’s much harder to compete with a thing. A trumpet. I know what his other wives knew, Daisy and Lil. That there’s no woman who is going to come between him and that horn. These black musician men. They are so full of sex that they can eroticize a piece of metal. Louis’s other wives couldn’t accept it. I can. Do I have regrets? Sometimes, I wonder whether I would have suc- ceeded. How far I could have gone with my dancing. Whether I would have become another Katherine Dunham. Or a Pearl Primus, or Eartha Kitt. Sometimes I won- der whether I sacrificed my career for Louis. Should I hover in the shadow of a great man, just to spend some time in his company? Just to love him. Have his clothes ready. Cook his meals. Run his household. And no matter where he goes or with whom he does his one-night stands, he always comes back to Queens. And when he does, the neighbors turn out as though he were a conquering hero. Dogs bark- ing. Children running after him. People honking their horns. It’s like a holiday when Louis comes home. Those are the days that make it all worthwhile. When my man is here eating his greens and chitterlings and sweet potato pie. Recovering from the road, making love to me. Maybe one day people will look back and say that Mamie and I were wrong. That she gave it all up for a man who went to his grave loving another woman. Or maybe I will be seen as someone who abandoned a career just to become a great man’s caretaker. Maybe they will dismiss us as victims, shut up in the 1950s, our opportunities stunted, condemned to carry on the tradition of our mothers, nurturing children and their husbands. But right now I look forward to those golden moments and those moments with Louis make it all worthwhile.

She puts a domestic dress over her Cotton Club outfit. Somebody provides her with a birthday cake. Stage center lights up and we see Louis sitting in his dressing room applying white cream to his face. Lucille, Joe Glaser, and Gloria enter. Lucille is carrying a birthday cake. Louis looks up.

lucille and joe: Happy birthday, Louis.

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armstrong: (Grins) You guys are full of surprises. Really sweet of you to remem- ber my birthday.

He embraces them. Nathaniel enters.

nat: Happy birthday, Louis. armstrong: Nat, what brings you here?

Armstrong introduces him all around.

nat: General Eisenhower wanted me to deliver this telegram to you, personally. armstrong: It’s been eight years since Little Rock. How is Ike doing? nat: He and Mamie are enjoying the Gettysburg farm. They both seem at peace. glaser: People still are puzzled about why he sent the troops into Little Rock.

So unlike him.

Nat and Louis exchange knowing glances.

Strange, complicated man. A product of the military, yet when he left office, he warned about the military-industrial complex.

nat: I hear that Faubus is working as a teller in a blank. armstrong: Read the telegram. nat: Mrs. Eisenhower and I are happy to be among those wishing you a happy

birthday. The date of your birth, a national holiday, would seem to insure a gala celebration. May you have many more years of good health and happiness. Signed Dwight Eisenhower.

lucille: He’s got his nerve, Louis. After what that old queen J. Edgar Hoover did to you.

armstrong: Ike made mistakes. But finally, he got that C above C above high C. Oh yeeeaaaaahhhhhhhhh.

glaser: What do you mean by that, Louis? armstrong: Just a secret between Ike and me. Nothing important. lucille: Louis, ain’t you goin’ to cut the cake?

Louis rises and begins to cut the cake as the three begin to sing “Happy Birthday.” Freeze: Spotlight on Eisenhower in suit. In the background of his speech is Armstrong’s “Snake Rag” upon which he does some high-C riffs.

eisenhower: For a few minutes this evening, I should like to speak to you about the serious situation that has arisen in Little Rock. To make this talk, I have come to the President’s Office in the White House. I could have spoken from Rhode Island where I have been staying recently. But I felt that in speaking from the house of Lincoln, of Jackson, and of Wilson, my words would better convey both the sad- ness I feel in the action I was compelled today to take, and the firmness with which I intend to pursue this course until the orders of the Federal Court at Little Rock can be executed without unlawful interference.

In that city, under the leadership of demagogic extremists, disorderly mobs have deliberately prevented the carrying out of proper orders from a federal court. Local authorities have not eliminated that violent opposition. And under the law I yes- terday issued a proclamation calling upon the mob to disperse. This morning the mob

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again gathered in front of the Central High School of Little Rock, obviously for the purpose of again preventing the carrying-out of the court’s order relating to the admission of Negro children to that school.

Whenever normal agencies prove inadequate to the task it becomes necessary for the Executive Branch of the Federal Government to use its power and author- ity to aid in the execution of federal law at Little Rock, Arkansas. This became necessary when my proclamation of yesterday was not observed and the obstruc- tion of justice still continues. It is important that the reasons for my action be under- stood by all our citizens. As you know, the Supreme Court of the United States has decided that separate public educational facilities for the races are inherently unequal and therefore compulsory school segregation laws are unconstitutional.

Dark.

Questions for Discussion 1. Explain what the Louis Armstrong character means by the statement, “My face doesn’t

belong to me anymore.” How do his actions just before and just after this line reinforce this statement?

2. Who is Elizabeth? How does Armstrong characterize her? 3. How does the J. Edgar Hoover character retain and wield power in the play? What

characteristics does the playwright ascribe to Hoover? 4. Describe the Dwight Eisenhower character’s dream. How does it relate to other ideas

about nationalism presented in the play? How close are the things he sees in the dream to present-day geopolitical reality?

5. Explain the title of the play. What importance does Armstrong place upon “high C’s”? How does he relate this feeling to the cause of civil rights?

Questions for Reflection and Writing 1. What distinctions does the play make between the “old jazz” of Louis Armstrong and

Jelly Roll and the “bebop,” or new jazz, of Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk? Where do Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman fit in?

2. What is the nature of relationships between men and women in this play? Between men and men? What picture of human sexuality emerges?

3. Isolate two different kinds of war Reed writes about in this play. How are they differ- ent? Are they different?

4. Study the use of black-and-white imagery throughout the play. What do you think Reed might be suggesting in his use of such imagery?

5. Go online and do a bit of research about the desegregation attempts in Little Rock in the 1950s. (If you’re having trouble getting started, check out this hyperlinked bibliography, <http://www.eisenhower.utexas.edu/dl/LittleRock/littlerockdocuments.html> which provides a great deal of information on the subject.) Using what you have learned, consider: what, if anything, does having more information on the history of the era contribute to your understanding of the play?

Ishmael Reed, The C Above High C: Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing 307

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice 1597

Dramatis Personae

THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, Ditto ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALERIO, Ditto GRATIANO, Ditto LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew, his friend LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock

OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelot LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio BALTHASAR, servant to Portia STEPHANO, Ditto

PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-maid JESSICA, daughter to Shylock Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,

Gaoler, Servants, and other Attendants

SCENE: Venice, and PORTIA’S house at Belmont

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Dramatis Personae

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice 1597

Act I.

Scene I.

Venice. A street

Enter ANTONIO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO

ANTONIO. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me That I have much ado to know myself. SALERIO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There where your argosies, with portly sail— Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea— Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings. SOLANIO. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt, Would make me sad. SALERIO. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats,

And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel’s side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad? But tell not me; I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise. ANTONIO. Believe me, no; I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year; Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. SOLANIO. Why then you are in love. ANTONIO. Fie, fie! SOLANIO. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad Because you are not merry; and ’twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper; And other of such vinegar aspect That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act I

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well; We leave you now with better company. SALERIO. I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me. ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th’ occasion to depart. SALERIO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say

when. You grow exceeding strange; must it be so? SALERIO. We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours. Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found

Antonio, We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. BASSANIO. I will not fail you. GRATIANO. You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang’d. ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano— A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. GRATIANO. Let me play the fool. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio— I love thee, and ’tis my love that speaks— There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; As who should say ’I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.’ O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I’ll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile; I’ll end my exhortation after dinner. LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak. GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. ANTONIO. Fare you well; I’ll grow a talker for this gear. GRATIANO. Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only

commendable In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO ANTONIO. Is that anything now? BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing,

more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in, two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search.

ANTONIO. Well; tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

That you to-day promis’d to tell me of? BASSANIO. ’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance; Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d From such a noble rate; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love; And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe. ANTONIO. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur’d My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlock’d to your occasions. BASSANIO. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch, To find the other forth; and by adventuring both I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost; but if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both, Or bring your latter hazard back again And thankfully rest debtor for the first. ANTONIO. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have. Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it; therefore, speak. BASSANIO. In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair and, fairer than that word,

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Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages. Her name is Portia—nothing undervalu’d To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth; For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate. ANTONIO. Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum; therefore go forth, Try what my credit can in Venice do; That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia. Go presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is; and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake. Exeunt

Scene II.

Belmont. PORTIA’S house

Enter PORTIA with her waiting-woman, NERISSA

PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounc’d. NERISSA. They would be better, if well followed. PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to

do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word ‘choose’! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb’d by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?

NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott’ry that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead—whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you—will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection.

NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA. Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but

talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afear’d my lady his mother play’d false with a smith.

NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say ‘An

you will not have me, choose.’ He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death’s-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he—why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-cap’ring; he will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.

NERISSA. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man’s picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.

NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able; I think the Frenchman became his surety, and seal’d under for another.

NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew?

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act I

PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober; and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him.

PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.

NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father’s imposition, depending on the caskets.

PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father’s will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure.

NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he call’d. NERISSA. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my

foolish eyes look’d upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

Enter a SERVINGMAN

How now! what news? SERVINGMAN. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to

take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here to-night.

PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me.

Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks

at the door. Exeunt

Scene III.

Venice. A public place

Enter BASSANIO With SHYLOCK the Jew

SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats—well. BASSANIO. Ay, sir, for three months. SHYLOCK. For three months—well. BASSANIO. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be

bound. SHYLOCK. Antonio shall become bound—well. BASSANIO. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I

know your answer? SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats for three months, and

Antonio bound. BASSANIO. Your answer to that. SHYLOCK. Antonio is a good man. BASSANIO. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? SHYLOCK. Ho, no, no, no, no; my meaning in saying he is a

good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient; yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England—and other ventures he hath, squand’red abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves—I mean pirates; and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats—I think I may take his bond.

BASSANIO. Be assur’d you may. SHYLOCK. I will be assur’d I may; and, that I may be

assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? BASSANIO. If it please you to dine with us. SHYLOCK. Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which

your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into! I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?

Enter ANTONIO

BASSANIO. This is Signior Antonio. SHYLOCK. [Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian; But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation; and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him! BASSANIO. Shylock, do you hear? SHYLOCK. I am debating of my present store, And, by the near guess of my memory,

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act I

I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? [To ANTONIO] Rest you fair, good

signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths. ANTONIO. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I’ll break a custom. [To BASSANIO] Is he yet possess’d How much ye would? SHYLOCK. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. ANTONIO. And for three months. SHYLOCK. I had forgot—three months; you told me so. Well then, your bond; and, let me see—but hear you, Methoughts you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage. ANTONIO. I do never use it. SHYLOCK. When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s sheep— This Jacob from our holy Abram was, As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third— ANTONIO. And what of him? Did he take interest? SHYLOCK. No, not take interest; not, as you would say, Directly int’rest; mark what Jacob did: When Laban and himself were compromis’d That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank, In end of autumn turned to the rams; And when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd pill’d me certain wands, And, in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob’s. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. ANTONIO. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv’d for; A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? SHYLOCK. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. But note me, signior. ANTONIO. [Aside] Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats—’tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve; then let me see, the rate— ANTONIO. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you? SHYLOCK. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances; Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe; You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help; Go to, then; you come to me, and you say ‘Shylock, we would have moneys.’ You say so— You that did void your rheum upon my beard And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say ’Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?’ Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this: ’Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last, You spurn’d me such a day; another time You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys’? ANTONIO. I am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends—for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend?— But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty. SHYLOCK. Why, look you, how you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me. This is kind I offer. BASSANIO. This were kindness. SHYLOCK. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond, and, in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me. ANTONIO. Content, in faith; I’ll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew. BASSANIO. You shall not seal to such a bond for me; I’ll rather dwell in my necessity. ANTONIO. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it; Within these two months—that’s a month before This bond expires—I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond. SHYLOCK. O father Abram, what these Christians are,

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Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this: If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man’s flesh taken from a man Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship; If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. ANTONIO. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. SHYLOCK. Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s;

Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house, left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I’ll be with you. ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew. Exit SHYLOCK The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind. BASSANIO. I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind. ANTONIO. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day.

Exeunt

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act I

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice 1597

Act II.

Scene I.

Belmont. PORTIA’S house

Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four

FOLLOWERS accordingly, with PORTIA, NERISSA, and train

PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love, I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes; Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. But, if my father had not scanted me, And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look’d on yet For my affection. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you. Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets

To try my fortune. By this scimitar, That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when ’a roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker band. So is Alcides beaten by his page; And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong, Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage; therefore be advis’d. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not; come, bring me unto

my chance. PORTIA. First, forward to the temple. After dinner Your hazard shall be made. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then, To make me blest or cursed’st among men! [Cornets, and exeunt]

Scene II.

Venice. A street

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Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO

LAUNCELOT. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me ‘Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot’ or ‘good Gobbo’ or ‘good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.’ My conscience says ‘No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, honest Gobbo’ or, as aforesaid, ‘honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not run; scorn running with thy heels.’ Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. ‘Via!’ says the fiend; ‘away!’ says the fiend. ‘For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind’ says the fiend ‘and run.’ Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me ‘My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s son’ or rather ‘an honest woman’s son’; for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste—well, my conscience says ‘Launcelot, budge not.’ ‘Budge,’ says the fiend. ‘Budge not,’ says my conscience. ‘Conscience,’ say I, (you counsel well.’ ‘Fiend,’ say I, ‘you counsel well.’ To be rul’d by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who—God bless the mark!—is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who—saving your reverence!—is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run.

Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket

GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew’s?

LAUNCELOT. [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him.

GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew’s?

LAUNCELOT. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.

GOBBO. Be God’s sonties, ‘twill be a hard way to hit! Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

LAUNCELOT. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters.—Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son; his father, though I say’t, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.

LAUNCELOT. Well, let his father be what ’a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.

GOBBO. Your worship’s friend, and Launcelot, sir.

LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO. Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership. LAUNCELOT. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master

Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.

LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?

GOBBO. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray you tell me, is my boy—God rest his soul!—alive or dead?

LAUNCELOT. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might

fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son may, but in the end truth will out.

GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot my boy.

LAUNCELOT. Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELOT. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am

Launcelot, the Jew’s man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.

GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed. I’ll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipp’d might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.

LAUNCELOT. It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward; I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him.

GOBBO. Lord, how art thou chang’d! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now?

LAUNCELOT. Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famish’d in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come; give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries; if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! Here comes the man. To him, father, for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

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Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with a FOLLOWER or two

BASSANIO. You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging. Exit a SERVANT

LAUNCELOT. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy— LAUNCELOT. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man,

that would, sir, as my father shall specify— GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to

serve— LAUNCELOT. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the

Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify— GOBBO. His master and he, saving your worship’s

reverence, are scarce cater-cousins— LAUNCELOT. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew,

having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you—

GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship; and my suit is—

LAUNCELOT. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you? LAUNCELOT. Serve you, sir. GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew’s service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. LAUNCELOT. The old proverb is very well parted between

my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough.

BASSANIO. Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows’; see it done. LAUNCELOT. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have

ne’er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book—I shall have good fortune. Go to, here’s a simple line of life; here’s a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing; a’leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed-here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling.

Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestowed, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best esteem’d acquaintance; hie thee, go. LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter GRATIANO

GRATIANO. Where’s your master? LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks. Exit GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio! BASSANIO. Gratiano! GRATIANO. I have suit to you. BASSANIO. You have obtain’d it. GRATIANO. You must not deny me: I must go with you to

Belmont. BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano: Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice— Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit; lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconst’red in the place I go to And lose my hopes. GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me: If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say amen, Use all the observance of civility Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing. GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night. BASSANIO. No, that were pity; I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well; I have some business. GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; But we will visit you at supper-time. Exeunt

Scene III.

Venice. SHYLOCK’S house

Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT

JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so. Our house is hell; and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act II

But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee; And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest. Give him this letter; do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. LAUNCELOT. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most

beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu!

JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelot. Exit LAUNCELOT Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be asham’d to be my father’s child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. Exit

Scene IV.

Venice. A street

Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO

LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in suppertime, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALERIO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SOLANIO. ’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly ordered; And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. ’Tis now but four o’clock; we have two hours To furnish us.

Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter

Friend Launcelot, what’s the news? LAUNCELOT. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall

seem to signify. LORENZO. I know the hand; in faith, ’tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. GRATIANO. Love-news, in faith! LAUNCELOT. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELOT. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to

sup to-night with my new master, the Christian. LORENZO. Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will

not fail her; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, Exit LAUNCELOT Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALERIO. Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight. SOLANIO. And so will I.

LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence. SALERIO. ’Tis good we do so. Exeunt SALERIO and

SOLANIO GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father’s house; What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with; What page’s suit she hath in readiness. If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. Exeunt

Scene V.

Venice. Before SHYLOCK’S house

Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT

SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see; thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.— What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me—What, Jessica!— And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out— Why, Jessica, I say! LAUNCELOT. Why, Jessica! SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. LAUNCELOT. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do

nothing without bidding.

Enter JESSICA

JESSICA. Call you? What is your will? SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica; There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love; they flatter me; But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. LAUNCELOT. I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth

expect your reproach. SHYLOCK. So do I his. LAUNCELOT. And they have conspired together; I will not

say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o’clock i’ th’ morning, falling out that year on Ash Wednesday was four year, in th’ afternoon.

SHYLOCK. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum, And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife,

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act II

Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces; But stop my house’s ears—I mean my casements; Let not the sound of shallow fopp’ry enter My sober house. By Jacob’s staff, I swear I have no mind of feasting forth to-night; But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah; Say I will come. LAUNCELOT. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at

window for all this. There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess’ eye. Exit SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha? JESSICA. His words were ‘Farewell, mistress’; nothing else. SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder, Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him; and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in; Perhaps I will return immediately. Do as I bid you, shut doors after you. Fast bind, fast find— A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. Exit JESSICA. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. Exit

Scene VI.

Venice. Before SHYLOCK’S house

Enter the maskers, GRATIANO and SALERIO

GRATIANO. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand. SALERIO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALERIO. O, ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly To seal love’s bonds new made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind; How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Enter LORENZO

SALERIO. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter. LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode! Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait. When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?

Enter JESSICA, above, in boy’s clothes

JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue. LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love. JESSICA. Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed; For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou

art. JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham’d of my exchange; But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur’d. LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once, For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast. JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight. Exit above

GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a gentle, and no Jew. LORENZO. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily, For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

Enter JESSICA, below

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away; Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. Exit with JESSICA and SALERIO

Enter ANTONIO

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act II

ANTONIO. Who’s there? GRATIANO. Signior Antonio? ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano, where are all the rest? ’Tis nine o’clock; our friends all stay for you; No masque to-night; the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard; I have sent twenty out to seek for you. GRATIANO. I am glad on’t; I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. Exeunt

Scene VII.

Belmont. PORTIA’s house

Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains

PORTIA. Go draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble Prince. Now make your choice. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this

inscription bears: ‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.’ The second, silver, which this promise carries: ‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt: ‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’ How shall I know if I do choose the right? PORTIA. The one of them contains my picture, Prince; If you choose that, then I am yours withal. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Some god direct my judgment! Let

me see; I will survey th’ inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? ‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’ Must give—for what? For lead? Hazard for lead! This casket threatens; men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages. A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? ‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou beest rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady; And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve? Why, that’s the lady! I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray’d no farther, but chose here? Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: ‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.’

Why, that’s the lady! All the world desires her; From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come As o’er a brook to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnation To think so base a thought; it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d, Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamp’d in gold; but that’s insculp’d upon. But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key; Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! PORTIA. There, take it, Prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours. [He opens the golden casket] PRINCE OF MOROCCO. O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing. ’All that glisters is not gold, Often have you heard that told; Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold. Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll’d. Fare you well, your suit is cold.’ Cold indeed, and labour lost, Then farewell, heat, and welcome, frost. Portia, adieu! I have too griev’d a heart To take a tedious leave; thus losers part. Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. Exeunt

Scene VIII.

Venice. A street

Enter SALERIO and SOLANIO

SALERIO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SOLANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act II

SALERIO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the Duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica; Besides, Antonio certified the Duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SOLANIO. I never heard a passion so confus’d, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. ‘My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! My ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter! And jewels—two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol’n by my daughter! Justice! Find the girl; She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.’ SALERIO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SOLANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. SALERIO. Marry, well rememb’red; I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me, in the narrow seas that part The French and English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish’d in silence that it were not his. SOLANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALERIO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part. Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answered ‘Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love; Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.’ And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted. SOLANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALERIO. Do we so. Exeunt

Scene IX.

Belmont. PORTIA’S house

Enter NERISSA, and a SERVITOR

NERISSA. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight;

The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath, And comes to his election presently.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON, PORTIA, and their trains

PORTIA. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince. If you choose that wherein I am contain’d, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d; But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately. ARRAGON. I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone. PORTIA. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. ARRAGON. And so have I address’d me. Fortune now To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead. ‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’ You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see: ‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.’ What many men desire—that ‘many’ may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach; Which pries not to th’ interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house! Tell me once more what title thou dost bear. ‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O that estates, degrees, and offices, Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare! How many be commanded that command! How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour! and how much honour Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new varnish’d! Well, but to my choice.

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act II

‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [He opens the silver casket] PORTIA. [Aside] Too long a pause for that which you find

there. ARRAGON. What’s here? The portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! ‘Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.’ Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better? PORTIA. To offend and judge are distinct offices And of opposed natures. ARRAGON. What is here? [Reads]

‘The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss, Such have but a shadow’s bliss. There be fools alive iwis Silver’d o’er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head. So be gone; you are sped.’

Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here. With one fool’s head I came to woo,

But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth. Exit with his train

PORTIA. Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. NERISSA. The ancient saying is no heresy: Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. PORTIA. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

Enter a SERVANT

SERVANT. Where is my lady? PORTIA. Here; what would my lord? SERVANT. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify th’ approaching of his lord, From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; To wit, besides commends and courteous breath, Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love. A day in April never came so sweet To show how costly summer was at hand As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. PORTIA. No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly. NERISSA. Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy will it be! Exeunt

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act II

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice 1597

Act III.

Scene I.

Venice. A street

Enter SOLANIO and SALERIO

SOLANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto? SALERIO. Why, yet it lives there uncheck’d that Antonio

hath a ship of rich lading wreck’d on the narrow seas; the Goodwins I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word.

SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapp’d ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio—O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!—

SALERIO. Come, the full stop. SOLANIO. Ha! What sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath

lost a ship. SALERIO. I would it might prove the end of his losses. SOLANIO. Let me say amen betimes, lest the devil cross my

prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.

Enter SHYLOCK

How now, Shylock? What news among the merchants? SHYLOCK. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of

my daughter’s flight.

SALERIO. That’s certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.

SOLANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was flidge; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.

SHYLOCK. She is damn’d for it. SALERIO. That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge. SHYLOCK. My own flesh and blood to rebel! SOLANIO. Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years? SHYLOCK. I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood. SALERIO. There is more difference between thy flesh and

hers than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?

SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that was us’d to come so smug upon the mart. Let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond. He was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond.

SALERIO. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh. What’s that good for?

SHYLOCK. To bait fish withal. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac’d me and hind’red me half a million; laugh’d at my losses, mock’d at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, 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

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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 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 itshall go hard but I will better the instruction.

Enter a MAN from ANTONIO

MAN. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.

SALERIO. We have been up and down to seek him.

Enter TUBAL

SOLANIO. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be match’d, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

Exeunt SOLANIO, SALERIO, and MAN SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? Hast

thou found my daughter? TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot

find her. SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone,

cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; would she were hears’d at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, so—and I know not what’s spent in the search. Why, thou—loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o’ my shoulders; no sighs but o’ my breathing; no tears but o’ my shedding!

TUBAL. Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I heard in Genoa—

SHYLOCK. What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck? TUBAL. Hath an argosy cast away coming from Tripolis. SHYLOCK. I thank God, I thank God. Is it true, is it true? TUBAL. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the

wreck. SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good

news—ha, ha!—heard in Genoa. TUBAL. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one

night, fourscore ducats. SHYLOCK. Thou stick’st a dagger in me—I shall never see

my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats!

TUBAL. There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in my company to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break.

SHYLOCK. I am very glad of it; I’ll plague him, I’ll torture him; I am glad of it.

TUBAL. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.

SHYLOCK. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

TUBAL. But Antonio is certainly undone. SHYLOCK. Nay, that’s true; that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee

me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal. Exeunt

Scene II.

Belmont. PORTIA’S house

Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and all

their trains

PORTIA. I pray you tarry; pause a day or two Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company; therefore forbear a while. There’s something tells me—but it is not love— I would not lose you; and you know yourself Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well— And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought— I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; So will I never be; so may you miss me; But if you do, you’ll make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes! They have o’erlook’d me and divided me; One half of me is yours, the other half yours— Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O! these naughty times Puts bars between the owners and their rights; And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long, but ’tis to peize the time, To eke it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election. BASSANIO. Let me choose; For as I am, I live upon the rack. PORTIA. Upon the rack, Bassanio? Then confess What treason there is mingled with your love. BASSANIO. None but that ugly treason of mistrust Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love; There may as well be amity and life ’Tween snow and fire as treason and my love. PORTIA. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

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Where men enforced do speak anything. BASSANIO. Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth. PORTIA. Well then, confess and live. BASSANIO. ‘Confess’ and ‘love’ Had been the very sum of my confession. O happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance! But let me to my fortune and the caskets. PORTIA. Away, then; I am lock’d in one of them. If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof; Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music. That the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And wat’ry death-bed for him. He may win; And what is music then? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch; such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages come forth to view The issue of th’ exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that mak’st the fray.

A SONG

the whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself

Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head, How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend’red in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy’s knell: I’ll begin it—Ding, dong, bell. ALL. Ding, dong, bell.

BASSANIO. So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceiv’d with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season’d with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk! And these assume but valour’s excrement To render them redoubted. Look on beauty And you shall see ’tis purchas’d by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it; So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness often known To be the dowry of a second head— The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge ’Tween man and man; but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten’st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! PORTIA. [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair, And shudd’ring fear, and green-ey’d jealousy! O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing. Make it less, For fear I surfeit. BASSANIO. [Opening the leaden casket] What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether riding on the balls of mine Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t’ entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes— How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. ‘You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleas’d with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss,

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Turn to where your lady is And claim her with a loving kiss.’ A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; I come by note, to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize, That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no; So, thrice-fair lady, stand I even so, As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. PORTIA. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am. Though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich, That only to stand high in your account I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account. But the full sum of me Is sum of something which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself and what is mine to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours—my lord’s. I give them with this ring, Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words; Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; And there is such confusion in my powers As, after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude, Where every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence; O, then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead! NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper To cry ‘Good joy.’ Good joy, my lord and lady! GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish, For I am sure you can wish none from me; And, when your honours mean to solemnize

The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; You lov’d, I lov’d; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls; For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last—if promise last— I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev’d her mistress. PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa? NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal. BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord. BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honoured in your

marriage. GRATIANO. We’ll play with them: the first boy for a

thousand ducats. NERISSA. What, and stake down? GRATIANO. No; we shall ne’er win at that sport, and stake

down— But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Salerio!

Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALERIO, a messenger

from Venice

BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new int’rest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome. PORTIA. So do I, my lord; They are entirely welcome. LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here; But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. SALERIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you. [Gives BASSANIO a

letter] BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth. SALERIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor well, unless in mind; his letter there Will show you his estate. [BASSANIO opens the letter] GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger; bid her welcome.

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act III

Your hand, Salerio. What’s the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success: We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. SALERIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yond same

paper That steals the colour from Bassanio’s cheek: Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. BASSANIO. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins—I was a gentleman; And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for indeed I have engag’d myself to a dear friend, Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio? Hath all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks? SALERIO. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear that, if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature that did bear the shape of man So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the Duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state, If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, The Duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. JESSICA. When I was with him, I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him; and I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power, deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio.

PORTIA. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? BASSANIO. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition’d and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies; and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. PORTIA. What sum owes he the Jew? BASSANIO. For me, three thousand ducats. PORTIA. What! no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend; For never shall you lie by Portia’s side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over. When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime Will live as maids and widows. Come, away; For you shall hence upon your wedding day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend. BASSANIO. [Reads] ‘Sweet Bassanio, 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 clear’d between you and I, 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.’

PORTIA. O love, dispatch all business and be gone! BASSANIO. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste; but, till I come again, No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer ’twixt us twain. Exeunt

Scene III.

Venice. A street

Enter SHYLOCK, SOLANIO, ANTONIO, and GAOLER

SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy— This is the fool that lent out money gratis. Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond; speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request.

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act III

ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak; I’ll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. I’ll not be made a soft and dull-ey’d fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield, To Christian intercessors. Follow not; I’ll have no speaking; I will have my bond. Exit SOLANIO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. ANTONIO. Let him alone; I’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life; his reason well I know: I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me. SOLANIO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, Will much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go; These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not. Exeunt

Scene IV.

Belmont. PORTIA’S house

Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR

LORENZO. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. PORTIA. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now; for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit, Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul

From out the state of hellish cruelty! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore, no more of it; hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord’s return; for mine own part, I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord’s return. There is a monastery two miles off, And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition, The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. LORENZO. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in an fair commands. PORTIA. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again. LORENZO. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you! JESSICA. I wish your ladyship all heart’s content. PORTIA. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas’d To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica. Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO Now, Balthasar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all th’ endeavour of a man In speed to Padua; see thou render this Into my cousin’s hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone; I shall be there before thee. BALTHASAR. Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

Exit PORTIA. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand That you yet know not of; we’ll see our husbands Before they think of us. NERISSA. Shall they see us? PORTIA. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died— I could not do withal. Then I’ll repent,

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act III

And wish for all that, that I had not kill’d them. And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinued school About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. NERISSA. Why, shall we turn to men? PORTIA. Fie, what a question’s that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I’ll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles to-day. Exeunt

Scene V.

Belmont. The garden

Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA

LAUNCELOT. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be o’ good cheer, for truly I think you are damn’d. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope, neither.

JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELOT. Marry, you may partly hope that your father

got you not—that you are not the Jew’s daughter. JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the

sins of my mother should be visited upon me. LAUNCELOT. Truly then I fear you are damn’d both by

father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways.

JESSICA. I shall be sav’d by my husband; he hath made me a Christian.

LAUNCELOT. Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow before, e’en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.

Enter LORENZO

JESSICA. I’ll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes.

LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.

JESSICA. Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly there’s no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork.

LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro’s belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.

LAUNCELOT. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for.

LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.

LAUNCELOT. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then

bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done too, sir, only ‘cover’ is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELOT. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou

show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.

LAUNCELOT. For the table, sir, it shall be serv’d in; for the meat, sir, it shall be cover’d; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.

Exit LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words; and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For, having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn’d with the other; for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon; first let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsome’er thou speak’st, ’mong other things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I’ll set you forth. Exeunt

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act III

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice 1597

Act IV.

Scene I.

Venice. The court of justice

Enter the DUKE, the MAGNIFICOES, ANTONIO, BASSANIO,

GRATIANO, SALERIO, and OTHERS

DUKE OF VENICE. What, is Antonio here? ANTONIO. Ready, so please your Grace. DUKE OF VENICE. I am sorry for thee; thou art come to

answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. ANTONIO. I have heard Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm’d To suffer with a quietness of spirit The very tyranny and rage of his. DUKE OF VENICE. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. SALERIO. He is ready at the door; he comes, my lord.

Enter SHYLOCK

DUKE OF VENICE. Make room, and let him stand before our face.

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act; and then, ’tis thought,

Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; And where thou now exacts the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh, Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch’d with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal, Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, That have of late so huddled on his back— Enow to press a royal merchant down, And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train’d To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. SHYLOCK. I have possess’d your Grace of what I purpose, And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond. If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city’s freedom. You’ll ask me why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats. I’ll not answer that, But say it is my humour—is it answer’d? What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig; Some that are mad if they behold a cat; And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ th’ nose, Cannot contain their urine; for affection, Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:

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As there is no firm reason to be rend’red Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; Why he, a harmless necessary cat; Why he, a woollen bagpipe, but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended; So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answered? BASSANIO. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. SHYLOCK. I am not bound to please thee with my answers. BASSANIO. Do all men kill the things they do not love? SHYLOCK. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? BASSANIO. Every offence is not a hate at first. SHYLOCK. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee

twice? ANTONIO. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height; You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops and to make no noise When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that—than which what’s harder?— His jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, Make no moe offers, use no farther means, But with all brief and plain conveniency Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. BASSANIO. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. SHYLOCK. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them; I would have my bond. DUKE OF VENICE. How shalt thou hope for mercy,

rend’ring none? SHYLOCK. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchas’d slave, Which, fike your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them; shall I say to you ’Let them be free, marry them to your heirs— Why sweat they under burdens?—let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season’d with such viands’? You will answer ‘The slaves are ours.’ So do I answer you: The pound of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought, ’tis mine, and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment; answer; shall I have it? DUKE OF VENICE. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this,

Come here to-day. SALERIO. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. DUKE OF VENICE. Bring us the letters; call the messenger. BASSANIO. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. ANTONIO. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.

Enter NERISSA dressed like a lawyer’s clerk

DUKE OF VENICE. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? NERISSA. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace. [Presents a letter] BASSANIO. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? SHYLOCK. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. GRATIANO. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak’st thy knife keen; but no metal can, No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee? SHYLOCK. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. GRATIANO. O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accus’d. Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit Govern’d a wolf who, hang’d for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou layest in thy unhallowed dam, Infus’d itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv’d and ravenous. SHYLOCK. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud; Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. DUKE OF VENICE. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he? NERISSA. He attendeth here hard by To know your answer, whether you’ll admit him. DUKE OF VENICE. With all my heart. Some three or four of

you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter. CLERK. [Reads] ‘Your Grace shall understand that at the

receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome—his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant; we turn’d o’er many

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books together; he is furnished with my opinion which, bettered with his own learning-the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend—comes with him at my importunity to fill up your Grace’s request in my stead. I beseech you let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.’

Enter PORTIA for BALTHAZAR, dressed like a Doctor of Laws

DUKE OF VENICE. YOU hear the learn’d Bellario, what he writes;

And here, I take it, is the doctor come. Give me your hand; come you from old Bellario? PORTIA. I did, my lord. DUKE OF VENICE. You are welcome; take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? PORTIA. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? DUKE OF VENICE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand

forth. PORTIA. Is your name Shylock? SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name. PORTIA. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. You stand within his danger, do you not? ANTONIO. Ay, so he says. PORTIA. Do you confess the bond? ANTONIO. I do. PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful. SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I? Tell me that. PORTIA. The quality of mercy is not strain’d; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this— That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea,

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. BASSANIO. Yes; here I tender it for him in the court; Yea, twice the sum; if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart; If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And, I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority; To do a great right do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will. PORTIA. It must not be; there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established; ’Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state; it cannot be. SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! PORTIA. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. SHYLOCK. Here ’tis, most reverend Doctor; here it is. PORTIA. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money off’red thee. SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful. Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law; your exposition Hath been most sound; I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me. I stay here on my bond. ANTONIO. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. PORTIA. Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife. SHYLOCK. O noble judge! O excellent young man! PORTIA. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond. SHYLOCK. ’Tis very true. O wise and upright judge, How much more elder art thou than thy looks! PORTIA. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. SHYLOCK. Ay, his breast— So says the bond; doth it not, noble judge? ‘Nearest his heart,’ those are the very words. PORTIA. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh? SHYLOCK. I have them ready.

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PORTIA. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. SHYLOCK. Is it so nominated in the bond? PORTIA. It is not so express’d, but what of that? ’Twere good you do so much for charity. SHYLOCK. I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond. PORTIA. You, merchant, have you anything to say? ANTONIO. But little: I am arm’d and well prepar’d. Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare you well. Grieve not that I am fall’n to this for you, For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom. It is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty; from which ling’ring penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife; Tell her the process of Antonio’s end; Say how I lov’d you; speak me fair in death; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt; For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart. BASSANIO. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself; But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem’d above thy life; I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you. PORTIA. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by to hear you make the offer. GRATIANO. I have a wife who I protest I love; I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. NERISSA. ’Tis well you offer it behind her back; The wish would make else an unquiet house. SHYLOCK. [Aside] These be the Christian husbands! I

have a daughter— Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian!— We trifle time; I pray thee pursue sentence. PORTIA. A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine. The court awards it and the law doth give it. SHYLOCK. Most rightful judge! PORTIA. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it. SHYLOCK. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare. PORTIA. Tarry a little; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood: The words expressly are ‘a pound of flesh.’ Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate

Unto the state of Venice. GRATIANO. O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge! SHYLOCK. Is that the law? PORTIA. Thyself shalt see the act; For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st. GRATIANO. O learned judge! Mark, Jew. A learned judge! SHYLOCK. I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. BASSANIO. Here is the money. PORTIA. Soft! The Jew shall have all justice. Soft! No haste. He shall have nothing but the penalty. GRATIANO. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! PORTIA. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak’st more Or less than a just pound—be it but so much As makes it light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair— Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. GRATIANO. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. PORTIA. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture. SHYLOCK. Give me my principal, and let me go. BASSANIO. I have it ready for thee; here it is. PORTIA. He hath refus’d it in the open court; He shall have merely justice, and his bond. GRATIANO. A Daniel still say I, a second Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. SHYLOCK. Shall I not have barely my principal? PORTIA. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. SHYLOCK. Why, then the devil give him good of it! I’ll stay no longer question. PORTIA. Tarry, Jew. The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state; And the offender’s life lies in the mercy Of the Duke only, ’gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand’st; For it appears by manifest proceeding That indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d The danger formerly by me rehears’d. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. GRATIANO. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself;

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And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge. DUKE OF VENICE. That thou shalt see the difference of our

spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. PORTIA. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio. SHYLOCK. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that. You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live. PORTIA. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? GRATIANO. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God’s sake! ANTONIO. So please my lord the Duke and all the court To quit the fine for one half of his goods; I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it Upon his death unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter— Two things provided more; that, for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. DUKE OF VENICE. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. PORTIA. Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say? SHYLOCK. I am content. PORTIA. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. SHYLOCK. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence; I am not well; send the deed after me And I will sign it. DUKE OF VENICE. Get thee gone, but do it. GRATIANO. In christ’ning shalt thou have two god-fathers; Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not to the font. Exit SHYLOCK DUKE OF VENICE. Sir, I entreat you home with me to

dinner. PORTIA. I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon; I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. DUKE OF VENICE. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For in my mind you are much bound to him. Exeunt DUKE, MAGNIFICOES, and train BASSANIO. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, We freely cope your courteous pains withal. ANTONIO. And stand indebted, over and above, In love and service to you evermore.

PORTIA. He is well paid that is well satisfied, And I, delivering you, am satisfied, And therein do account myself well paid. My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you, know me when we meet again; I wish you well, and so I take my leave. BASSANIO. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further; Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, Not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you, Not to deny me, and to pardon me. PORTIA. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. [To ANTONIO] Give me your gloves, I’ll wear them for

your sake. [To BASSANIO] And, for your love, I’ll take this ring

from you. Do not draw back your hand; I’ll take no more, And you in love shall not deny me this. BASSANIO. This ring, good sir—alas, it is a trifle; I will not shame myself to give you this. PORTIA. I will have nothing else but only this; And now, methinks, I have a mind to it. BASSANIO.. There’s more depends on this than on the

value. The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, And find it out by proclamation; Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. PORTIA. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers; You taught me first to beg, and now, methinks, You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d. BASSANIO. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife; And, when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. PORTIA. That ’scuse serves many men to save their gifts. And if your wife be not a mad woman, And know how well I have deserv’d this ring, She would not hold out enemy for ever For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you! Exeunt PORTIA and NERISSA ANTONIO. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring. Let his deservings, and my love withal, Be valued ’gainst your wife’s commandment. BASSANIO. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him; Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, Unto Antonio’s house. Away, make haste. Exit

GRATIANO Come, you and I will thither presently; And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. Exeunt

Scene II.

Venice. A street

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA

PORTIA. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this deed,

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And let him sign it; we’ll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.

Enter GRATIANO

GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en. My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be. His ring I do accept most thankfully, And so, I pray you, tell him. Furthermore,

I pray you show my youth old Shylock’s house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to PORTIA] I’ll See if I can get my husband’s ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA. [To NERISSA] Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall

have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too. [Aloud] Away, make haste, thou know’st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? Exeunt

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act IV

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice 1597

Act V.

Scene I.

Belmont. The garden before PORTIA’S house

Enter LORENZO and JESSICA

LORENZO. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise—in such a night, Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night. JESSICA. In such a night Did Thisby fearfully o’ertrip the dew, And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself, And ran dismayed away. LORENZO. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage. JESSICA. In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs That did renew old AEson. LORENZO. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. JESSICA. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he lov’d her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne’er a true one. LORENZO. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her. JESSICA. I would out-night you, did no body come; But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

Enter STEPHANO

LORENZO. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? STEPHANO. A friend. LORENZO. A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you,

friend? STEPHANO. Stephano is my name, and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours. LORENZO. Who comes with her? STEPHANO. None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet return’d? LORENZO. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

Enter LAUNCELOT

LAUNCELOT. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! LORENZO. Who calls? LAUNCELOT. Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master

Lorenzo! Sola, sola! LORENZO. Leave holloaing, man. Here! LAUNCELOT. Sola! Where, where? LORENZO. Here!

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LAUNCELOT. Tell him there’s a post come from my master with his horn full of good news; my master will be here ere morning.

Exit LORENZO. Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their

coming. And yet no matter—why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Within the house, your mistress is at hand; And bring your music forth into the air. Exit

STEPHANO How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-ey’d cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Enter MUSICIANS

Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear. And draw her home with music. [Music] JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. LORENZO. The reason is your spirits are attentive; For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood— If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull:as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA

PORTIA. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. NERISSA. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

PORTIA. So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music! hark! NERISSA. It is your music, madam, of the house. PORTIA. Nothing is good, I see, without respect; Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. NERISSA. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. PORTIA. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think ne nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season’d are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace, ho! The moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak’d. [Music ceases] LORENZO. That is the voice, Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia. PORTIA. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice. LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home. PORTIA. We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return’d? LORENZO. Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before, To signify their coming. PORTIA.. Go in, Nerissa; Give order to my servants that they take No note at all of our being absent hence; Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. [A tucket sounds] LORENZO. Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not. PORTIA. This night methinks is but the daylight sick; It looks a little paler; ’tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their followers

BASSANIO. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. PORTIA. Let me give light, but let me not be light, For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me; But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord. BASSANIO. I thank you, madam; give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound. PORTIA. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. ANTONIO. No more than I am well acquitted of. PORTIA. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words,

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act V

Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. GRATIANO. [To NERISSA] By yonder moon I swear you

do me wrong; In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk. Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. PORTIA. A quarrel, ho, already! What’s the matter? GRATIANO. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutler’s poetry Upon a knife, ‘Love me, and leave me not.’ NERISSA. What talk you of the posy or the value? You swore to me, when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death, And that it should lie with you in your grave; Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge’s clerk! No, God’s my judge, The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it. GRATIANO. He will, an if he live to be a man. NERISSA. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. GRATIANO. Now by this hand I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk; A prating boy that begg’d it as a fee; I could not for my heart deny it him. PORTIA. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift, A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part with it, and here he stands; I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief; An ’twere to me, I should be mad at it. BASSANIO. [Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off, And swear I lost the ring defending it. GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg’d it, and indeed Deserv’d it too; and then the boy, his clerk, That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine; And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings. PORTIA. What ring gave you, my lord? Not that, I hope, which you receiv’d of me. BASSANIO. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it; but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. PORTIA. Even so void is your false heart of truth; By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed Until I see the ring. NERISSA. Nor I in yours Till I again see mine. BASSANIO. Sweet Portia,

If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure. PORTIA. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas’d to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe: I’ll die for’t but some woman had the ring. BASSANIO. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, No woman had it, but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, And begg’d the ring; the which I did deny him, And suffer’d him to go displeas’d away— Even he that had held up the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforc’d to send it after him; I was beset with shame and courtesy; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; For by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. PORTIA. Let not that doctor e’er come near my house; Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you; I’ll not deny him anything I have, No, not my body, nor my husband’s bed. Know him I shall, I am well sure of it. Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus; If you do not, if I be left alone, Now, by mine honour which is yet mine own, I’ll have that doctor for mine bedfellow. NERISSA. And I his clerk; therefore be well advis’d How you do leave me to mine own protection. GRATIANO. Well, do you so, let not me take him then; For, if I do, I’ll mar the young clerk’s pen. ANTONIO. I am th’ unhappy subject of these quarrels. PORTIA. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome not

withstanding. BASSANIO. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; And in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself— PORTIA. Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, In each eye one; swear by your double self, And there’s an oath of credit.

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act V

BASSANIO. Nay, but hear me. Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. ANTONIO. I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which, but for him that had your husband’s ring, Had quite miscarried; I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. PORTIA. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, And bid him keep it better than the other. ANTONIO. Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring. BASSANIO. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! PORTIA. I had it of him. Pardon me, Bassanio, For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. NERISSA. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk, In lieu of this, last night did lie with me. GRATIANO. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough. What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserv’d it? PORTIA. Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz’d. Here is a letter; read it at your leisure; It comes from Padua, from Bellario; There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, Nerissa there her clerk. Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, And even but now return’d; I have not yet Enter’d my house. Antonio, you are welcome; And I have better news in store for you Than you expect. Unseal this letter soon; There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly. You shall not know by what strange accident

I chanced on this letter. ANTONIO. I am dumb. BASSANIO. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not? GRATIANO. Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold? NERISSA. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man. BASSANIO. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow; When I am absent, then lie with my wife. ANTONIO. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road. PORTIA. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. NERISSA. Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess’d of. LORENZO. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people. PORTIA. It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in, And charge us there upon inter’gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully. GRATIANO. Let it be so. The first inter’gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day. But were the day come, I should wish it dark, Till I were couching with the doctor’s clerk. Well, while I live, I’ll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. Exeunt

THE END

Library of the Future® William Shakespeare The Merchant of Venice Act V

The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Oscar Wilde (1854–1900) was born in Dublin, his father a leading surgeon and his mothera well-known writer (under the pen name “Speranza”), feminist, and Irish nationalist. A brilliant student, Wilde won prizes for his linguistic talents even as early as boarding school. He received scholarships to Trinity College in Dublin and Magdalen College, Oxford University, where he studied classics and from which he received a B.A. in 1878. At Oxford, he studied under Walter Pater and John Ruskin, and formed his “art for art’s sake” philosophy. He traveled through Europe, writing poetry; his long poem Ravenna won a prize from Oxford University. In 1879 he moved to London, was a neighbor of the American artist, James McNeill Whistler, and thus began their long- standing intellectual feud. (Whistler accused Wilde of plagiarism and Wilde thought Whistler was a bad artist.) A first play, Vera; or the Nihilists (1883), did not have much success, partly because it was considered offensive to the royal families of England and Russia. Wilde turned to writing poetry and critical essays. His Poems (1881) received a mixed response. Meanwhile, his dandyism and posturing made him well known in the fashionable circles but also a subject of caricature by Punch and other magazines. Wilde did not mind, as it added to his celebrity. In 1882 he went on a lecture tour to the United States and Canada, giving 125 lectures on art and poetry. The Happy Prince and Other Tales (1888) finally secured him the critical response he wanted, as did the novel The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890, revised 1891) and the collection of critical essays Intentions (1891), in which his famous essays on art, “The Critic as Artist” and “The Decay of Lying” appear. Further collections of stories and poetry appeared, but the plays were what people came to see. Lady Windermere’s Fan (1892), A Woman of No Importance (1893), and The Ideal Husband (1895) played to full houses and great reviews. Even his one-act play, Salomé, considered shocking and decadent, was generally accepted by the public. Shortly after The Importance of Being Earnest opened in 1895, Wilde was accused of homosexuality by the father of Wilde’s lover. When he said he was innocent, the father was arrested for libel; in the ensuing trial, Wilde dropped his suit when the evidence began to go against him but was, in turn, put on trial for homosexuality. Convicted, he served two years in prison, during which time he wrote the letters De Profundis (1905) and the long poem Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898), exposing the horrid conditions of prison life. After being released from prison, Wilde moved to France, never to return to England.

R The Importance of Being Earnest

Oscar Wilde

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

john worthing, j.p. algernon moncrieff rev. canon chasuble, d.d. merriman, butler lane, manservant lady bracknell hon. gwendolen fairfax cecily cardew miss prism, governess

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

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THE SCENES OF THE PLAY

Act I, algernon moncrieff’s Flat in Half-Moon Street, W. Act II, The Garden at the Manor House, Woolton. Act III, Morning-room at the Manor House, Woolton.

Time, The Present.

FIRST ACT

SCENE—Morning-room in algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is luxuri- ously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room.

[lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has ceased, algernon enters.]

Alg. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane? Lane. I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir. Alg. I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately—anyone can play

accurately—but I play with wonderful expression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep science for Life.

Lane. Yes, sir. Alg. And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the cucumber sandwiches

cut for Lady Bracknell? Lane. Yes, sir. [Hands them on a salver.] Alg. [Inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] Oh!. . . by the way, Lane,

I see from your book that on Thursday night, when Lord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of champagne are entered as having been consumed.

Lane. Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint. Alg. Why is it that at a bachelor’s establishment the servants invariably drink

the champagne? I ask merely for information. Lane. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have often observed

that in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand. Alg. Good Heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that? Lane. I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very little experience

of it myself up to the present. I have only been married once. That was in conse- quence of a misunderstanding between myself and a young person.

Alg. [Languidly.] I don’t know that I am much interested in your family life, Lane. Lane. No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think of it myself. Alg. Very natural, I am sure. That will do, Lane, thank you. Lane. Thank you, sir. [lane goes out.] Alg. Lane’s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the lower orders

don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral responsibility.

[Enter lane.]

Lane. Mr. Ernest Worthing.

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

[Enter jack.] [lane goes out.]

Alg. How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town? Jack. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere? Eating as

usual, I see, Algy! Alg. [Stiffly.] I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refresh-

ment at five o’clock. Where have you been since last Thursday? Jack. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country. Alg. What on earth do you do there? Jack. [Pulling off his gloves.] When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one

is in the country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring. Alg. And who are the people you amuse? Jack. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours. Alg. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire? Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them. Alg. How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes sandwich.] By

the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not? Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucum-

ber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is coming to tea?

Alg. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen. Jack. How perfectly delightful! Alg. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve

of your being here. Jack. May I ask why? Alg. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful.

It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you. Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to propose

to her. Alg. I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that business. Jack. How utterly unromantic you are! Alg. I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be

in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I’ll certainly try to forget the fact.

Jack. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously constituted.

Alg. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made in Heaven—[jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. algernon at once interferes.] Please don’t touch the cucumber sandwiches. They are ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]

Jack. Well, you have been eating them all the time. Alg. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from below.]

Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

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Jack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and butter it is too.

Alg. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. You behave as if you were married to her already. You are not married to her already, and I don’t think you ever will be.

Jack. Why, on earth do you say that? Alg. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t

think it right. Jack. Oh, that is nonsense! Alg. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary number of bach-

elors that one sees all over the place. In the second place, I don’t give my consent. Jack. Your consent! Alg. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I allow you to

marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.] Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily?

I don’t know anyone of the name of Cecily.

[Enter lane.]

Alg. Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking-room the last time he dined here.

Lane. Yes, sir. [lane goes out.] Jack. Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? I wish

to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a large reward.

Alg. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than usually hard up. Jack. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found.

[Enter lane with the cigarette case on a salver. algernon takes it at once. lane goes out.]

Alg. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens case and exam- ines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the inscription inside, I find that the thing isn’t yours after all.

Jack. Of course it’s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette case.

Alg. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard-and-fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read.

Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss modern culture. It isn’t the sort of thing one should talk of in private. I simply want my cigarette case back.

Alg. Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette case is a present from someone of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn’t know anyone of that name.

Jack. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt. Alg. Your aunt!

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest: Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing 343

The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back to me, Algy.

Alg. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.] “From little Cecily with her fond- est love.”

Jack. [Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what on earth is there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for herself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt! That is absurd! For Heaven’s sake give me back my ciga- rette case. [Follows algy round the room.]

Alg. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? “From little Cecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.” There is no objection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, I can’t quite make out. Besides, your name isn’t Jack at all; it is Ernest.

Jack. It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack. Alg. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you to everyone

as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest looking person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn’t Ernest. It’s on your cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.] “Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany.” I’ll keep this as a proof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny, it to me, or to Gwendolen, or to any- one else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]

Jack. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the cigarette case was given to me in the country.

Alg. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle. Come, old boy, you had much bet- ter have the thing out at once.

Jack. My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn’t a dentist. It produces a false impression.

Alg. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on! Tell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.

Jack. Bunburyist! What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist? Alg. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you

are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country. Jack. Well, produce my cigarette case first. Alg. Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your explanation, and pray

make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.] Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all.

In fact it’s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his granddaughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

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Alg. Where is that place in the country, by the way? Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited. I may tell

you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire. Alg. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two

separate occasions. Now go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in the country? Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my real

motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.

Alg. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!

Jack. That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing. Alg. Literary criticism is, not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should

leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

Jack. What on earth do you mean? Alg. You have invented a very useful young brother called Ernest, in order that

you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invalu- able permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.

Jack. I haven’t asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night. Alg. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. It is very

foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations. Jack. You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta. Alg. I haven’t the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. To begin

with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine with one’s own relations. In the second place, whenever I do dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sent down with either no woman at all, or two. In the third place, I know perfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. She will place me next to Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the dinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent . . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply wash- ing one’s clean linen in public. Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist, I naturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the rules.

Jack. I’m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going to kill my brother, indeed I think I’ll kill him in any case. Cecily is a little too much

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going to get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr. . . . with your invalid friend who has the absurd name.

Alg. Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.

Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, and she is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I certainly won’t want to know Bunbury.

Alg. Then your wife will. You don’t seem to realize, that in married life three is company and two is none.

Jack. [Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.

Alg. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the time. Jack. For Heaven’s sake, don’t try to be cynical. It’s perfectly easy to be cynical. Alg. My dear fellow, it isn’t easy to be anything now-a-days. There’s such a lot

of beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bell is heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportu- nity for proposing to Gwendolen, may I dine with you to-night at Willis’s?

Jack. I suppose so, if you want to. Alg. Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are not serious about

meals. It is so shallow of them.

[Enter lane.]

Lane. Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.

[algernon goes forward to meet them. Enter lady bracknell and gwendolen.]

Lady Bra. Good afternoon, dear Algernon. I hope you are behaving very well. Alg. I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta. Lady Bra. That’s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things rarely go

together. [Sees jack and bows to him with icy coldness.] Alg. [To gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart! Gwen. I am always smart! Aren’t I, Mr. Worthing? Jack. You are quite perfect, Miss Fairfax. Gwen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments,

and I intend to develop in many directions.

[gwendolen and jack sit down together in the corner.]

Lady Bra. I’m sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury. I hadn’t been there since her poor husband’s death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger. And now I’ll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me.

Alg. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.] Lady Bra. Won’t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

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Gwen. Thanks, mamma, I’m quite comfortable where I am. Alg. [Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good Heavens! Lane! Why, are there no

cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially. Lane. [Gravely.] There were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir, I went

down twice. Alg. No cucumbers! Lane. No, sir. Not even for ready money. Alg. That will do, Lane, thank you. Lane. Thank you, sir. Alg. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no cucumbers, not

even for ready money. Lady Bra. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some crumpets with Lady

Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now. Alg. I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief. Lady Bra. It certainly has changed its color. From what cause I, of course, can-

not say. [algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you. I’ve quite a treat for you to- night, Algernon. I am going to send you down with Mary Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband. It’s delightful to watch them.

Alg. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with you to-night after all.

Lady Bra. [Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put my table completely out. Your uncle would have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he is accustomed to that.

Alg. It’s a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances with jack.] They seem to think I should be with him.

Lady Bra. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.

Alg. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid. Lady Bra. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr.

Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shilly- shallying with the question is absurd. Nor do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of life. I am always telling that to your poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as any improvement in his ailments goes. I should be obliged if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last reception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end of the season when everyone has practically said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.

Alg. I’ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious, and I think I can promise you he’ll be all right by Saturday. Of course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music, people don’t listen, and if one plays bad music, peo- ple don’t talk. But I’ll run over the programme I’ve drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.

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Lady Bra. Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you. [Rising, and following algernon.] I’m sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot possibly allow. People always seem to think that they are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so. Gwendolen, you will accompany me.

Gwen. Certainly, mamma.

[lady bracknell and algernon go into the music-room, gwendolen remains behind.]

Jack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax. Gwen. Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever peo-

ple talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean some- thing else. And that makes me so nervous.

Jack. I do mean something else. Gwen. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong. Jack. And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady Bracknell’s tem-

porary absence . . . Gwen. I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of coming back

suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to her about. Jack. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired you more

than any girl . . . I have ever met since . . . I met you. Gwen. Yes, I am quite aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at

any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have always had an irre- sistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from indifferent to you. [jack looks at her in amazement.] We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits I am told: and my ideal has always been to love some one of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you.

Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen? Gwen. Passionately! Jack. Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me. Gwen. My own Ernest! Jack. But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if my name

wasn’t Ernest? Gwen. But your name is Ernest. Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to

say you couldn’t love me then? Gwen. [Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most

metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don’t much care about the name of Ernest . . . I don’t think the name suits me at all.

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Gwen. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations.

Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.

Gwen. Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations. . . . I have known sev- eral Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleas- ure of a single moment’s solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.

Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost.

Gwen. Married, Mr. Worthing? Jack. [Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to

believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me. Gwen. I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said

at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on. Jack. Well . . . may I propose to you now? Gwen. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any pos-

sible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly beforehand that I am fully determined to accept you.

Jack. Gwendolen! Gwen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me? Jack. You know what I have got to say to you. Gwen. Yes, but you don’t say it. Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.] Gwen. Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid

you have had very little experience in how to propose. Jack. My own one, I have never loved anyone in the world but you. Gwen. Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother Gerald does.

All my girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite blue. I hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present.

[Enter lady bracknell.]

Lady Bra. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.

Gwen. Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.] I must beg you to retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not quite finished yet.

Lady Bra. Finished what, may I ask? Gwen. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma. [They rise together.] Lady Bra. Pardon me, you are not engaged to anyone. When you do become

engaged to some one, I, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange

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for herself. . . . And now I have a few questions to put to you, Mr. Worthing. While I am making these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage.

Gwen. [Reproachfully.] Mamma! Lady Bra. In the carriage, Gwendolen! [gwendolen goes to the door. She and jack

blow kisses to each other behind lady bracknell’s back. lady bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understand what the noise was. Finally turns round.] Gwendolen, the carriage!

Gwen. Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at jack.] Lady Bra. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.

[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]

Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing. Lady Bra. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell you that you are

not down on my list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?

Jack. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke. Lady Bra. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some

kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you? Jack. Twenty-nine. Lady Bra. A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that

a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?

Jack. [After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell. Lady Bra. I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with

natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?

Jack. Between seven and eight thousand a year. Lady Bra. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments? Jack. In investments, chiefly. Lady Bra. That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one dur-

ing one’s lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one’s death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keep- ing it up. That’s all that can be said about land.

Jack. I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it.

Lady Bra. A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.

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Jack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six months’ notice.

Lady Bra. Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her. Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years. Lady Bra. Ah, now-a-days that is no guarantee of respectability of character.

What number in Belgrave Square? Jack. 149. Lady Bra. [Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thought there was some-

thing. However, that could easily be altered. Jack. Do you mean the fashion, or the side? Lady Bra. [Sternly.] Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics? Jack. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist. Lady Bra. Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening,

at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living? Jack. I have lost both my parents. Lady Bra. Both? . . . That seems like carelessness. Who was your father? He

was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of aristocracy?

Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me. . . . I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was well, I was found.

Lady Bra. Found! Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and

kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he hap- pened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

Lady Bra. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?

Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag. Lady Bra. A hand-bag? Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhat large,

black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag, in fact. Lady Bra. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across

this ordinary hand-bag? Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for

his own. Lady Bra. The cloak-room at Victoria Station? Jack. Yes. The Brighton line. Lady Bra. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewil-

dered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate, bred in a hand- bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that remind one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a rail- way station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion—has probably, indeed, been

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used for that purpose before now—but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognized position in good society.

Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.

Lady Bra. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.

Jack. I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand- bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should sat- isfy you, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bra. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought up with the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!

[lady bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]

Jack. Good morning! [algernon, from the other room, strikes up the Wedding March. jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For goodness’ sake don’t play that ghastly tune, Algy! How idiotic you are!

[The music stops, and algernon enters cheerily.]

Alg. Didn’t it go off all right, old boy? You don’t mean to say Gwendolen refused you, I know it is a way she has. She is always refusing people. I think it is most ill- natured of her.

Jack. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet. As far as she is concerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable. Never met such a Gorgon . . . I don’t really know what a Gorgon is like, but I am quite sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . I beg your pardon, Algy, I suppose I shouldn’t talk about your own aunt in that way before you.

Alg. My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the only thing that makes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply a tedious pack of people who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense! Alg. It isn’t! Jack. Well, I won’t argue about the matter. You always want to argue about things. Alg. That is exactly what things were originally made for. Jack. Upon my word, if I thought that, I’d shoot myself. . . [A pause.] You don’t

think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother in about a hun- dred and fifty years, do you, Algy?

Alg. All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.

Jack. Is that clever? Alg. It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in civilized life

should be.

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Jack. I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever now-a-days. You can’t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolute pub- lic nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left.

Alg. We have. Jack. I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about? Alg. The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course. Jack. What fools! Alg. By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being Ernest in

town, and Jack in the country? Jack. [In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn’t quite the sort

of thing one tells to a nice sweet refined girl. What extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!

Alg. The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is pretty, and to someone else if she is plain.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense. Alg. What about your brother? What about the profligate Ernest? Jack. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I’ll say he died

in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite suddenly, don’t they? Alg. Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dear fellow. It’s a sort of thing that runs in fam-

ilies. You had much better say a severe chill. Jack. You are sure a severe chill isn’t hereditary, or anything of that kind? Alg. Of course it isn’t! Jack. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest is carried off suddenly in Paris,

by a severe chill. That gets rid of him. Alg. But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little too much inter-

ested in your poor brother, Ernest? Won’t she feel his loss a good deal? Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am glad to say. She

has got a capital appetite, goes for long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons.

Alg. I would rather like to see Cecily. Jack. I will take very good care you never do. She is excessively pretty, and she

is only just eighteen. Alg. Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who

is only just eighteen? Jack. Oh! one doesn’t blurt these things out to people. Cecily, and Gwendolen

are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. I’ll bet you anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be calling each other sister.

Alg. Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at Willis’s, we really must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?

Jack. [Irritably.] Oh! it always is nearly seven. Alg. Well, I’m hungry. Jack. I never knew you when you weren’t. . . . Alg. What shall we do after dinner? Go to the theatre? Jack. Oh no! I loathe listening.

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Alg. Well, let us go to the club? Jack. Oh no! I hate talking. Alg. Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten? Jack. Oh no! I can’t bear looking at things. It is so silly. Alg. Well, what shall we do? Jack. Nothing! Alg. It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don’t mind hard work

where there is no definite object of any kind.

[Enter lane.]

Lane. Miss Fairfax.

[Enter gwendolen. lane goes out.]

Alg. Gwendolen, upon my word! Gwen. Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to

Mr. Worthing. Alg. Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow this at all. Gwen. Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. You are

not quite old enough to do that. [algernon retires to the fireplace.] Jack. My own darling! Gwen. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on mamma’s face

I fear we never shall. Few parents now-a-days pay any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I lost at the age of three. But although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry someone else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.

Jack. Dear Gwendolen! Gwen. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma, with

unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. The simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is your address in the country?

Jack. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.

[algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]

Gwen. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be necessary to do some- thing desperate. That of course will require serious consideration. I will communi- cate with you daily.

Jack. My own one! Gwen. How long do you remain in town? Jack. Till Monday. Gwen. Good! Algy, you may turn round now. Alg. Thanks, I’ve turned round already. Gwen. You may also ring the bell.

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Jack. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling? Gwen. Certainly. Jack. [To lane, who now enters.] I will see Miss Fairfax out. Lane. Yes. sir. [jack and gwendolen go off.]

[lane presents several letters on a salver to algernon. It is to be surmised that they are bills, as algernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.]

Alg. A glass of sherry, Lane. Lane. Yes, sir. Alg. To-morrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying. Lane. Yes, sir. Alg. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my dress clothes,

my smoking Jacket, and all the Bunbury suits. . . . Lane. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.] Alg. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane. Lane. It never is, sir. Alg. Lane, you’re a perfect pessimist. Lane. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.

[Enter jack. lane goes off.]

Jack. There’s a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared for in my life. [algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earth are you so amused at?

Alg. Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all. Jack. If you don’t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a serious scrape

some day. Alg. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious. Jack. Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense. Alg. Nobody ever does.

[jack looks indignantly at him, leaves the room. algernon lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]

SECOND ACT

SCENE—Garden at the Manor House. A flight of gray stone steps leads up to the house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year, July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a large yew tree.

[miss prism discovered seated at the table. cecily is at the back watering flowers.]

Miss Pri. [Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian occupation as the watering of flowers is rather Moulton’s duty than yours? Especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. Your German grammar is on the table. Pray open it at page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday’s lesson.

Cec. [Coming over very slowly.] But I don’t like German. It isn’t at all a becom- ing language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after my German lesson.

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Miss Pri. Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on your German, as he was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on your German when he is leaving for town.

Cec. Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious that I think he cannot be quite well.

Miss Pri. [Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one so comparatively young as he is. I know no one who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility.

Cec. I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are together.

Miss Pri. Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many troubles in his life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother.

Cec. I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his brother, to come down here sometimes. We might have a good influence over him, Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would. You know German, and geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [cecily begins to write in her diary.]

Miss Pri. [Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could produce any effect on a character that according to his own brother’s admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure that I would desire to reclaim him. I am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people at a moment’s notice. As a man sows so let him reap. You must put away your diary, Cecily. I really don’t see why you should keep a diary at all.

Cec. I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I didn’t write them down I should probably forget all about them.

Miss Pri. Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us. Cec. Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and

couldn’t possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.

Miss Pri. Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily. I wrote one myself in earlier days.

Cec. Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I hope it did not end happily? I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress me so much.

Miss Pri. The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.

Cec. I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel ever published? Miss Pri. Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. I use the word

in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work, child, these speculations are profitless. Cec. [Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through the garden. Miss Pri. [Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed a pleasure.

[Enter canon chasuble.]

Chas. And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well?

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Cec. Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I think it would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the Park, Dr. Chasuble.

Miss Pri. Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache. Cec. No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that you had a

headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my German lesson, when the Rector came in.

Chas. I hope Cecily, you are not inattentive. Cec. Oh, I am afraid I am. Chas. That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism’s pupil, I would

hang upon her lips. [miss prism glares.] I spoke metaphorically. My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I suppose, has not returned from town yet?

Miss Pri. We do not expect him till Monday afternoon. Chas. Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is not one of

those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But I must not disturb Egeria and her pupil any longer.

Miss Pri. Egeria? My name is Laetitia, Doctor. Chas. [Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan authors. I shall

see you both no doubt at Evensong? Miss Pri. I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I find I have a

headache after all, and a walk might do it good. Chas. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the schools

and back. Miss Pri. That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy

in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side.

[Goes down the garden with dr. chasuble.]

Cec. [Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid Political Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!

[Enter merriman with a card on a salver.]

Merr. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has brought his luggage with him.

Cec. [Takes the card and reads it.] “Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4 The Albany, W.” Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?

Merr. Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment.

Cec. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him.

Merr. Yes, Miss. [merriman goes off.] Cec. I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened.

I am so afraid he will look just like everyone else.

[Enter algernon, very gay and debonnair.]

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He does! Alg. [Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I’m sure. Cec. You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe I am

more than usually tall for my age. [algernon is rather taken aback.) But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are Uncle Jack’s brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.

Alg. Oh! I am not really wicked at all, Cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think that I am wicked.

Cec. If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very inex- cusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.

Alg. [Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless. Cec. I am glad to hear it. Alg. In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in my own small

way. Cec. I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure it must

have been very pleasant. Alg. It is much pleasanter being here with you. Cec. I can’t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won’t be back till

Monday afternoon. Alg. That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the first train on

Monday morning. I have a business appointment that I am anxious . . . to miss. Cec. Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but in London? Alg. No: the appointment is in London. Cec. Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a business engage-

ment, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack arrives. I know he wants to speak to you about your emi- grating.

Alg. About my what? Cec. Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit. Alg. I certainly wouldn’t let Jack buy my outfit. He has no taste in neckties at

all. Cec. I don’t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending you to

Australia. Alg. Australia? I’d sooner die. Cec. Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would have to choose

between this world, the next world, and Australia. Alg. Oh, well! The accounts I have received of Australia and the next world are

not particularly encouraging. This world is good enough for me, Cousin Cecily. Cec. Yes, but are you good enough for it? Alg. I’m afraid I’m not that. That is why I want you to reform me. You might

make that your mission, if you don’t mind, Cousin Cecily. Cec. I’m afraid I’ve no time, this afternoon. Alg. Well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon? Cec. It is rather Quixotic of you. But I think you should try.

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Alg. I will. I feel better already. Cec. You are looking a little worse. Alg. That is because I am hungry. Cec. How thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that when one is going

to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals. Won’t you come in?

Alg. Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole first? I never have any appetite unless I have a buttonhole first.

Cec. A Marechale Niel? [Picks up scissors.] Alg. No, I’d sooner have a pink rose. Cec. Why? [Cuts a flower.] Alg. Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily. Cec. I don’t think it can be right for you to talk to me like that. Miss Prism never

says such things to me. Alg. Then Miss Prism is a shortsighted old lady. [cecily puts the rose in his but-

tonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw. Cec. Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare. Alg. They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be caught in. Cec. Oh! I don’t think I would care to catch a sensible man. I shouldn’t know

what to talk to him about.

[They pass into the house. miss prism and dr. chasuble return.]

Miss Pri. You are too much alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should get married. A misanthrope I can understand—a womanthrope, never!

Chas. [With a scholar’s shudder.] Believe me, I do not deserve so neologistic a phrase. The precept as well as the practice of the Primitive Church was distinctly against matrimony.

Miss Pri. [Sententiously.] That is obviously the reason why the Primitive Church has not lasted up to the present day. And you do not seem to realize, dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation. Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray.

Chas. But is a man not equally attractive when married? Miss Pri. No married man is ever attractive except to his wife. Chas. And often, I’ve been told, not even to her. Miss Pri. That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman. Maturity

can always be depended on. Ripeness can be trusted. Young women are green. [dr. chasuble starts.] I spoke horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn from fruits. But where is Cecily?

Chas. Perhaps she followed us to the schools.

[Enter jack slowly from the back of the garden. He is dressed in the deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.]

Miss Pri. Mr. Worthing! Chas. Mr. Worthing!

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Miss Pri. This is indeed a surprise. We did not look for you till Monday afternoon. Jack. [Shakes miss prism’s hand in a tragic manner.] I have returned sooner than

I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are well? Chas. Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not betoken some terri-

ble calamity? Jack. My brother. Miss Pri. More shameful debts and extravagance? Chas. Still leading his life of pleasure? Jack. [Shaking his head.] Dead! Chas. Your brother Ernest dead? Jack. Quite dead. Miss Pri. What a lesson for him! I trust he will profit by it. Chas. Mr. Worthing, I offer you my sincere condolence. You have at least the

consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and forgiving of brothers.

Jack. Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow. Chas. Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end? Jack. No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last night from the

manager of the Grand Hotel. Chas. Was the cause of death mentioned? Jack. A severe chill, it seems. Miss Pri. As a man sows, so shall he reap. Chas. [Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity! None of us are per-

fect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will the interment take place here?

Jack. No. He seemed to have expressed a desire to be buried in Paris. Chas. In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points to any very serious state

of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday. [jack presses his hand convulsively.] My sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occa- sion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.

Jack. Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings, I think, Dr. Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? [dr. chasuble looks astounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren’t you?

Miss Pri. It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector’s most constant duties in this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject. But they don’t seem to know what thrift is.

Chas. But is there any particular infant in whom you are interested, Mr. Worthing? Your brother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not?

Jack. Oh yes.

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Miss Pri. [Bitterly.] People who live entirely for pleasure usually are. Jack. But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of children. No! the

fact is, I would like to be christened myself, this afternoon, if you have nothing bet- ter to do.

Chas. But surely, Mr. Worthing, you have been christened already? Jack. I don’t remember anything about it. Chas. But have you any grave doubts on the subject? Jack. I certainly intend to have. Of course I don’t know if the thing would bother

you in any way, or if you think I am a little too old now. Chas. Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of adults is a per-

fectly canonical practice. Jack. Immersion! Chas. You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is necessary, or

indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so changeable. At what hour would you wish the ceremony performed?

Jack. Oh, I might trot round about five if that would suit you. Chas. Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar ceremonies to perform at

that time. A case of twins that occurred recently in one of the outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins the carter, a most hard-working man.

Jack. Oh! I don’t see much fun in being christened along with other babies. It would be childish. Would half-past five do?

Chas. Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now, dear Mr. Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.

Miss Pri. This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.

[Enter cecily from the house.]

Cec. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But what horrid clothes you have got on! Do go and change them.

Miss Pri. Cecily! Chas. My child! my child! [cecily goes towards jack; he kisses her brow in a melan-

choly manner.] Cec. What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as if you had a

toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who do you think is in the dining- room? Your brother!

Jack. Who? Cec. Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago. Jack. What nonsense! I haven’t got a brother! Cec. Oh, don’t say that. However badly he may have behaved to you in the past

he is still your brother. You couldn’t be so heartless as to disown him. I’ll tell him to come out. And you will shake hands with him, won’t you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into the house.]

Chas. These are very joyful tidings.

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Miss Pri. After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden return seems to me peculiarly distressing.

Jack. My brother is in the dining-room? I don’t know what it all means. I think it is perfectly absurd.

[Enter algernon and cecily hand in hand. They come slowly up to jack.]

Jack. Good Heavens! [Motions algernon away.] Alg. Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you that I am very sorry

for all the trouble I have given you, and that I intend to lead a better life in the future. [jack glares at him and does not take his hand.]

Cec. Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother’s hand? Jack. Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming down here

disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why. Cec. Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in one everyone. Ernest has

been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunbury whom he goes to visit so often. And surely there must be much good in one who is kind to an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.

Jack. Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he? Cec. Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his terrible state of

health. Jack. Bunbury! Well, I won’t have him talk to you about Bunbury or about any-

thing else. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic. Alg. Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. But I must say that I

think Brother John’s coldness to me is peculiarly painful. I expected a more enthu- siastic welcome, especially considering it is the first time I have come here.

Cec. Uncle Jack, if you don’t shake hands with Ernest, I will never forgive you. Jack. Never forgive me? Cec. Never, never, never! Jack. Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it.

[Shakes hands with algernon and glares.]

Chas. It is pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? I think we might leave the two brothers together.

Miss Pri. Cecily, you will come with us. Cec. Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is over. Chas. You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child. Miss Pri. We must not be premature in our judgments. Cec. I feel very happy. [They all go off.] Jack. You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as soon as pos-

sible. I don’t allow any Bunburying here.

[Enter merriman.]

Merr. I have put Mr. Ernest’s things in the room next to yours, sir. I suppose that is all right?

Jack. What?

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Merr. Mr. Ernest’s luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in the room next to your own.

Jack. His luggage? Merr. Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat boxes, and a large

luncheon-basket. Alg. I am afraid I can’t stay more than a week this time. Jack. Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Mr. Ernest has been suddenly called

back to town. Merr. Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.] Alg. What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been called back to town at all. Jack. Yes, you have. Alg. I haven’t heard anyone call me. Jack. Your duty as a gentleman calls you back. Alg. My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the small-

est degree. Jack. I can quite understand that. Alg. Well, Cecily is a darling. Jack. You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don’t like it. Alg. Well, I don’t like your clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous in them. Why

on earth don’t you go up and change? It is perfectly childish to be in deep mourn- ing for a man who is actually staying for a whole week with you in your house as a guest. I call it grotesque.

Jack. You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or any- thing else. You have got to leave . . . by the four-five train.

Alg. I certainly won’t leave you so long as you are in mourning. It would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn’t.

Jack. Well, will you go if I change my clothes? Alg. Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so long to dress, and

with such little result. Jack. Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed as you are. Alg. If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always

immensely over-educated. Jack. Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence in

my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to catch the four-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you. [Goes into the house.]

Alg. I think it has been a great success. I’m in love with Cecily, and that is everything.

[Enter cecily at the back of the garden. She picks up the can and begins to water the flowers.]

But I must see her before I go, and make arrangements for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.

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Cec. Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were with Uncle Jack.

Alg. He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me. Cec. Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive? Alg. He’s going to send me away. Cec. Then have we got to part? Alg. I am afraid so. It’s very painful parting. Cec. It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief

space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable.

Alg. Thank you.

[Enter merriman.]

Merr. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. [algernon looks appealingly at cecily.] Cec. It can wait, Merriman . . . for . . . five minutes. Merr. Yes, Miss. [Exit merriman.] Alg. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly

that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.

Cec. I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to table and begins writing in diary.]

Alg. Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I? Cec. Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very young girl’s record

of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delight in taking down from dictation. I have reached “absolute perfection.” You can go on. I am quite ready for more.

Alg. [Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem! Cec. Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently

and not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough. [Writes as algernon speaks.]

Alg. [Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your wonder- ful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.

Cec. I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passion- ately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?

Alg. Cecily!

[Enter merriman.]

Merr. The dog-cart is waiting, sir. Alg. Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour. Merr. [Looks at cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.

[merriman retires.]

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Cec. Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till next week, at the same hour.

Alg. Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in the whole world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’t you?

Cec. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.

Alg. For the last three months? Cec. Yes, it will be exactly, three months on Thursday. Alg. But how did we become engaged? Cec. Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he had a younger

brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself and Miss Prism. And of course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. One feels there must be something in him after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love with you, Ernest.

Alg. Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled? Cec. On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire ignorance of my exis-

tence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear told tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lovers’ knot I promised you always to wear.

Alg. Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it? Cec. Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuse I’ve always given

for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]

Alg. My letters! But my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any letters. Cec. You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too well that

I was forced to write your letters for you. I always wrote three times a week, and some- times oftener.

Alg. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily? Cec. Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too conceited. [Replaces

box.] The three you wrote me after I had broken off the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.

Alg. But was our engagement ever broken off? Cec. Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you

like. [Shows diary.] “To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues charming.”

Alg. But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had done noth- ing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so charming.

Cec. It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been bro- ken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.

Alg. [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you are, Cecily. Cec. You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers through his hair.] I

hope your hair curls naturally, does it? Alg. Yes, darling, with a little help from others.

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Cec. I am so glad. Alg. You’ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily? Cec. I don’t think I could break it off now that I have actually met you. Besides,

of course, there is the question of your name. Alg. Yes, of course. [Nervously.] Cec. You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish dream

of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest. [algernon rises, cecily also.] There is something in that name that seems to inspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor- married woman whose husband is not called Ernest.

Alg. But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me if I had some other name?

Cec. But what name? Alg. Oh, any name you like—Algernon—for instance . . . Cec. But I don’t like the name of Algernon. Alg. Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I really can’t see why you

should object to the name of Algernon. It is not at all a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of the chaps who get into the Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily . . . [Moving to her.] . . . if my name was Algy, couldn’t you love me?

Cec. [Rising.] I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire your character, but I fear that I should not be able to give you my undivided attention.

Alg. Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is, I suppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and ceremonials of the Church?

Cec. Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never written a sin- gle book, so you can imagine how much he knows.

Alg. I must see him at once on a most important christening—I mean on most important business.

Cec. Oh! Alg. I sha’n’t be away more than half an hour. Cec. Considering that we have been engaged since February the 14th, and that

I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it is rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour. Couldn’t you make it twenty minutes?

Alg. I’ll be back in no time.

[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]

Cec. What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must enter his proposal in my diary.

[Enter merriman.]

Merr. A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. Worthing. On very important business Miss Fairfax states.

Cec. Isn’t Mr. Worthing in his library? Merr. Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory some time ago. Cec. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be back soon.

And you can bring tea.

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Merr. Yes, Miss. [Goes out.] Cec. Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who are asso-

ciated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in London. I don’t quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. I think it is so forward of them.

[Enter merriman.]

Merr. Miss Fairfax.

[Enter gwendolen.] [Exit merriman.]

Cec. [Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to you. My name is Cecily Cardew.

Gwen. Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What a very sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I like you already more than I can say. My first impressions of people are never wrong.

Cec. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.

Gwen. [Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not? Cec. With pleasure! Gwen. And you will always call me Gwendolen, won’t you? Cec. If you wish. Gwen. Then that is all quite settled, is it not? Cec. I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.] Gwen. Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who

I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of papa, I suppose? Cec. I don’t think so. Gwen. Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is entirely unknown. I

think that is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I don’t like that. It makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking at you through my glasses?

Cec. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at. Gwen. [After examining cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] You are here on a

short visit, I suppose. Cec. Oh no! I live here. Gwen. [Severely.] Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of

advanced years, resides here also? Cec. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations. Gwen. Indeed? Cec. My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the arduous task

of looking after me. Gwen. Your guardian? Cec. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing’s ward.

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Gwen. Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you, Cecily; I have liked you ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now that I know that you are Mr. Worthing’s ward, I cannot help express- ing a wish you were—well just a little older than you seem to be—and not quite so very alluring in appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly—

Cec. Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, one should always be quite candid.

Gwen. Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has a strong, upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour. Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so, indeed, History would be quite unreadable.

Cec. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest? Gwen. Yes. Cec. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is his brother—

his elder brother. Gwen. [Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he had a brother. Cec. I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time. Gwen. Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have never heard

any man mention his brother. The subject seems distasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost anxious. It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?

Cec. Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his. Gwen. [Enquiringly.] I beg your pardon? Cec. [Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason why I

should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to be married.

Gwen. [Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there must be some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement will appear in “The Morning Post” on Saturday at the latest.

Cec. [Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows diary.]

Gwen. [Examines diary through her lorgnette carefully.] It is certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5:30. If you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of her own.] I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior claim.

Cec. It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.

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Gwen. [Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish prom- ise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a firm hand.

Cec. [Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are married.

Gwen. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are pre- sumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one’s mind. It becomes a pleasure.

Cec. Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.

Gwen. [Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.

[Enter merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table cloth, and plate stand. cecily is about to retort. The presence of the servants exercises a restraining influ- ence, under which both girls chafe.]

Merr. Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss? Cec. [sternly, in a calm voice.] Yes, as usual. [merriman begins to clear table and

lay cloth. A long pause. cecily and gwendolen glare at each other.] Gwen. Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss Cardew? Cec. Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite close one

can see five counties. Gwen. Five counties! I don’t think I should like that. I hate crowds. Cec. [Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [gwendolen bites her

lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.] Gwen. [Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss Cardew. Cec. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax. Gwen. I had no idea there were any flowers in the country. Cec. Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in London. Gwen. Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the

country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to death. Cec. Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? I

believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told. May I offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?

Gwen. [With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable girl! But I require tea!

Cec. [Sweetly.] Sugar? Gwen. [Superciliously.] No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any more. [cecily

looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of sugar into the cup.] Cec. [Sweetly.] Cake or bread and butter? Gwen. [In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely seen at the

best houses nowadays. Cec. [Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] Hand that to Miss

Fairfax.

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[merriman does so, and goes out with footman. gwendolen drinks the tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.]

Gwen. You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for the gentle- ness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.

Cec. [Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not go.

Gwen. From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first impressions of people are invariably right.

Cec. It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your valuable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make in the neigh- bourhood.

[Enter jack.]

Gwen. [Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My own Ernest! Jack. Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.] Gwen. [Drawing back.] A moment! May I ask if you are engaged to be married

to this young lady? [Points to cecily.] Jack. [Laughing.] To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could have put such

an idea into your pretty little head? Gwen. Thank you. You may! [Offers her cheek.] Cec. [Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax.

The gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my dear guardian, Mr. John Worthing.

Gwen. I beg your pardon? Cec. This is Uncle Jack. Gwen. [Receding.] Jack! Oh!

[Enter algernon.]

Cec. Here is Ernest. Alg. [Goes straight over to cecily without noticing anyone else.] My own love! [Offers

to kiss her.] Cec. [Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you—are you engaged to

be married to this young lady? Alg. [Looking round.] To what young lady? Good Heavens! Gwendolen! Cec. Yes! to good Heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen. Alg. [Laughing.] Of course not! What could have put such an idea into your pretty

little head? Cec. Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may. [Algernon kisses

her.] Gwen. I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The gentleman who is

now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.

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Cec. [Breaking away from algernon.] Algernon Moncrieff! Oh! [The two girls move towards each other and put their arms round each other’s waists as if for protection.]

Cec. Are you called Algernon? Alg. I cannot deny it. Cec. Oh! Gwen. Is your name really John? Jack. [Standing rather proudly.] I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if

I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been John for years. Cec. [To gwendolen.] A gross deception has been practiced on both of us. Gwen. My poor wounded Cecily! Cec. My sweet wronged Gwendolen! Gwen. [Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will you not? [They embrace.

jack and algernon groan and walk up and down.] Cec. [Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like to be allowed to ask

my guardian. Gwen. An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question I would like

to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother Ernest? We are both engaged to be married to your brother Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where your brother Ernest is at present.

Jack. [Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen—Cecily—it is very painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first time in my life that I have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However I will tell you quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at all. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have not the small- est intention of ever having one in the future.

Cec. [Surprised.] No brother at all? Jack. [Cheerily.] None! Gwen. [Severely.] Had you never a brother of any kind? Jack. [Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind. Gwen. I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is engaged to be

married to anyone. Cec. It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find herself in.

Is it? Gwen. Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to come after us there. Cec. No, men are so cowardly, aren’t they?

[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]

Jack. This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I suppose? Alg. Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most wonderful Bunbury

I have ever had in my life. Jack. Well, you’ve no right whatsoever to Bunbury here. Alg. That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one chooses. Every

serious Bunburyist knows that. Jack. Serious Bunburyist! Good Heavens!

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Alg. Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to have any amuse- ment in life. I happen to be serious about Bunburying. What on earth you are seri- ous about I haven’t got the remotest idea. About everything, I should fancy. You have such an absolutely trivial nature.

Jack. Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this wretched busi- ness is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded. You won’t be able to run down to the country quite so often as you used to do, dear Algy. And a very good thing too.

Alg. Your brother is a little off colour, isn’t he, dear Jack? You won’t be able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your wicked custom was. And not a bad thing either.

Jack. As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that your taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that was quite inexcusable. To say nothing of the fact that she is my ward.

Alg. I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a brilliant, clever, thor- oughly experienced young lady like Miss Fairfax. To say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.

Jack. I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her. Alg. Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her. Jack. There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew. Alg. I don’t think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and Miss Fairfax being

united. Jack. Well, that is no business of yours. Alg. If it was my business, I wouldn’t talk about it. [Begins to eat muffins.] It is very

vulgar to talk about one’s business. Only people like stockbrokers do that, and then merely at dinner-parties.

Jack. How you can sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this horri- ble trouble, I can’t make out. You seem to me to be perfectly heartless.

Alg. Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter would proba- bly get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.

Jack. I say it’s perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all, under the circum- stances.

Alg. When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles me. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as anyone who knows me intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink. At the present moment I am eating muffins because I am unhappy. Besides, I am particularly fond of muffins. [Rising.]

Jack. [Rising.] Well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in that greedy way. [Takes muffins from algernon.]

Alg. [Offering tea-cake.] I wish you would have tea-cake instead. I don’t like tea-cake.

Jack. Good Heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own garden. Alg. But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins. Jack. I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the circumstances. That is a

very different thing.

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Alg. That may be. But the muffins are the same. [He seizes the muffin-dish from jack.]

Jack. Algy, I wish to goodness you would go. Alg. You can’t possibly ask me to go without having some dinner. It’s absurd. I

never go without my dinner. No one ever does, except vegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just made arrangements with Dr. Chasuble, to be christened at a quarter to six under the name of Ernest.

Jack. My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the better. I made arrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be christened myself at 5:30, and I naturally will take the name of Ernest. Gwendolen would wish it. We can’t both be christened Ernest. It’s absurd. Besides, I have a perfect right to be christened if I like. There is no evidence at all that I ever have been christened by anybody. I should think it extremely probable I never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is entirely dif- ferent in your case. You have been christened already.

Alg. Yes, but I have not been christened for years. Jack. Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important thing. Alg. Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If you are not quite sure

about your ever having been christened, I must say I think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It might make you very unwell. You can hardly have forgotten that someone very closely connected with you was very nearly carried off this week in Paris by a severe chill.

Jack. Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not hereditary. Alg. It usen’t to be, I know—but I daresay it is now. Science is always making

wonderful improvements in things. Jack. [Picking up the muffin-dish.] Oh, that is nonsense; you are always talking

nonsense. Alg. Jack, you are at the muffins again. I wish you wouldn’t. There are only

two left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly fond of muffins. Jack. But I hate tea-cake. Alg. Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for your guests?

What ideas you have of hospitality! Jack. Algernon! I have already told you to go. I don’t want you here. Why don’t

you go? Alg. I haven’t quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one muffin left. [jack

groans, and sinks into a chair. algernon still continues eating.]

THIRD ACT

SCENE—Morning-room at the Manor House.

[gwendolen and cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]

Gwen. The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, as anyone else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left.

Cec. They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance. Gwen. [After a pause.] They don’t seem to notice us at all. Couldn’t you cough?

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Cec. But I haven’t got a cough. Gwen. They’re looking at us. What effrontery! Cec. They’re approaching. That’s very forward of them. Gwen. Let us preserve a dignified silence. Cec. Certainly. It’s the only thing to do now.

[Enter jack followed by algernon. They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]

Gwen. This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect. Cec. A most distasteful one. Gwen. But we will not be the first to speak. Cec. Certainly not. Gwen. Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you. Much depends

on your reply. Cec. Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer

me the following question. Why did you pretend to be my guardian’s brother? Alg. In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you. Cec. [To gwendolen.] That certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does it

not? Gwen. Yes, dear, if you can believe him. Cec. I don’t. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer. Gwen. True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing.

Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?

Jack. Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax? Gwen. I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to crush them.

This is not the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to cecily.] Their explana- tions appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s. That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.

Cec. I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity.

Gwen. Then you think we should forgive them? Cec. Yes. I mean no. Gwen. True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that one cannot sur-

render. Which of us should tell them? The task is not a pleasant one. Cec. Could we not both speak at the same time? Gwen. An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time as other peo-

ple. Will you take the time from me? Cec. Certainly. [gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.] Gwen and Cec. [Speaking together.] Your Christian names are still an insupera-

ble barrier. That is all! Jack and Alg. [Speaking together.] Our Christian names! Is that all? But we are

going to be christened this afternoon. Gwen. [To jack.] For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing?

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Jack. I am. Cec. [To algernon.] To please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal? Alg. I am! Gwen. How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where questions of self-

sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us. Jack. We are. [Clasps hands with algernon.] Cec. They have moments of physical courage of which we women know

absolutely nothing. Gwen. [To jack.] Darling! Alg. [To cecily.] Darling! [They fall into each other’s arms.]

[Enter merriman. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.]

Merr. Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell! Jack. Good Heavens!

[Enter lady bracknell. The couples separate in alarm. Exit merriman.]

Lady Bra. Gwendolen! What does this mean? Gwen. Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing, mamma. Lady Bra. Come here. Sit down. Sit down immediately. Hesitation of any kind

is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old. [Turns to jack.] Apprised, sir, of my daughter’s sudden flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a small coin, I followed her at once by a luggage train. Her unhappy father is, I am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on the Influence of a permanent income on Thought. I do not propose to undeceive him. Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question. I would consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand that all communication between yourself and my daugh- ter must cease immediately from this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.

Jack. I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell! Lady Bra. You are nothing of the kind, so. And now, as regards Algernon! . . .

Algernon! Alg. Yes, Aunt Augusta. Lady Bra. May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury

resides? Alg. [Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere

else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead. Lady Bra. Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have been

extremely sudden. Alg. [Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this

afternoon. Lady Bra. What did he die of? Alg. Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded. Lady Bra. Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not

aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.

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Alg. My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean—so Bunbury died.

Lady Bra. He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physi- cians. I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice. And now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnec- essary manner?

Jack. That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward. [lady bracknell bows coldly to cecily.]

Alg. I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta. Lady Bra. I beg your pardon? Cec. Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell. Lady Bra. [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.] I do not know

whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seems to me consider- ably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance. I think some preliminary enquiry on my part would not be out of place. Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of the larger railway stations in London? I merely desire information. Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any fami- lies or persons whose origin was a Terminus. [jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.]

Jack. [In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is the granddaughter of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149, Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.

Lady Bra. That sounds not unsatisfactory. Three addresses always inspire con- fidence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have I of their authenticity?

Jack. I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period. They are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bra. [Grimly.] I have known strange errors in that publication. Jack. Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby. Lady Bra. Markby, Markby, and Markby? A firm of the very highest position in

their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. Markbys is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. So far I am satisfied.

Jack. [Very irritably.] How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell! I have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of Miss Cardew’s birth, bap- tism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both the German and the English variety.

Lady Bra. Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl. I am not myself in favour of premature experiences. [Rises, looks at her watch.] Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. We have not a moment to lose. As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune.

Jack. Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. That is all. Good-bye, Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen you.

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Lady Bra. [Sitting down again.] A moment, Mr. Worthing. A hundred and thirty thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her. Few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces. [To cecily.] Come over here, dear. [cecily goes across.] Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as Nature might have left it. But we can soon alter all that. A thoroughly experienced French maid pro- duces a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time. I remember recom- mending one to young Lady Lancing, and after three months her own husband did not know her.

Jack. [Aside.] And after six months nobody knew her. Lady Bra. [Glares at jack for a few moments. Then bends, with a practised smile,

to cecily.] Kindly turn round, sweet child. [cecily turns completely round.] No, the side view is what I want. [cecily presents her profile.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct social possibilities in your profile. The two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of profile. The chin a little higher, dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. They are worn very high, just at present. Algernon!

Alg. Yes, Aunt Augusta! Lady Bra. There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew’s profile. Alg. Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world. And I don’t

care twopence about social possibilities. Lady Bra. Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only people who

can’t get into it do that. [To cecily.] Dear child, of course you know that Algernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon. But I do not approve of mercenary mar- riages. When I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune of any kind. But I never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my consent.

Alg. Thank you, Aunt Augusta. Lady Bra. Cecily, you may kiss me! Cec. [Kisses her.] Thank you, Lady Bracknell. Lady Bra. You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future. Cec. Thank you, Aunt Augusta. Lady Bra. The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon. Alg. Thank you, Aunt Augusta. Cec. Thank you, Aunt Augusta. Lady Bra. To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long engagements. They give

people the opportunity of finding out each other’s character before marriage, which I think is never advisable.

Jack. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this engage- ment is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew’s guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. That consent I absolutely decline to give.

Lady Bra. Upon what grounds, may I ask? Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more can one desire?

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Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest: Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing 377

The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Jack. It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady Bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at all of his moral charac- ter. I suspect him of being untruthful. [algernon and cecily look at him in indignant amazement.]

Lady Bra. Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is an Oxonian. Jack. I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. This afternoon, dur-

ing my temporary absence in London on an important question of romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false pretense of being my brother. Under an assumed name he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; a wine I was specially reserving for myself. Continuing his disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my only ward. He subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin. And what makes his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don’t intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon.

Lady Bra. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have decided entirely to overlook my nephew’s conduct to you.

Jack. That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell. My own decision, however, is unalterable. I decline to give my consent.

Lady Bra. [To cecily.] Come here, sweet child. [cecily goes over.] How old are you, dear?

Cec. Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty when I go to evening parties.

Lady Bra. You are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so calculating. . . . [In a meditative manner.] Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties. Well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s consent is, after all, a matter of any importance.

Jack. Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather’s will Miss Cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five.

Lady Bra. That does not seem to me to be a grave objection. Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dumbleton is an instance in point. To my own knowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now, I see no reason why our dear Cecily should not be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at pres- ent. There will be a large accumulation of property.

Cec. Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five? Alg. Of course I could, Cecily. You know I could. Cec. Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time. I hate waiting

even five minutes for anybody. It always makes me rather cross. I am not punctual myself, I know, but I do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question.

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Alg. Then what is to be done, Cecily? Cec. I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff. Lady Bra. My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew states positively that she can-

not wait till she is thirty-five—a remark which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature—I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.

Jack. But, my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands. The moment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward.

Lady Bra. [Rising and drawing herself up.] You must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the question.

Jack. Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to. Lady Bra. That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen. Algernon, of course,

can choose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.] Come, dear; [gwendolen rises.] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any more might expose us to com- ment on the platform.

[Enter dr. chasuble.]

Chas. Everything is quite ready for the christenings. Lady Bra. The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat premature? Chas. [Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to jack and algernon.] Both these

gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism. Lady Bra. At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious! Algernon, I for-

bid you to be baptised. I will not hear of such excesses. Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money.

Chas. Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this afternoon?

Jack. I don’t think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.

Chas. I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr. Worthing. They savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists, views that I have completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons. However, as your present mood seems to be one pecu- liarly secular, I will return to the church at once. Indeed, I have just been informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in the vestry.

Lady Bra. [Starting.] Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism? Chas. Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my way to join her. Lady Bra. Pray, allow me to detain you for a moment. This matter may prove

to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education?

Chas. [Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability.

Lady Bra. It is obviously the same person. May I ask what position she holds in your household?

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Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest: Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing 379

The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Chas. [Severely.] I am a celibate, madam. Jack. [Interposing.] Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last three years

Miss Cardew’s esteemed governess and valued companion. Lady Bra. In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once. Let her be sent

for. Chas. [Looking off.] She approaches; she is nigh.

[Enter miss prism hurriedly.]

Miss Pri. I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I have been wait- ing for you there for an hour and three quarters. [Catches sight of lady bracknell who has fixed her with a stony glare. miss prism grows pale and quails. She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]

Lady Bra. [In a severe, judicial voice.] Prism! [miss prism bows her head in shame.] Come here, Prism! [miss prism approaches in a humble manner.] Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation. The canon starts back in horror. algernon and jack pre- tend to be anxious to shield cecily and gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public scandal.] Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell’s house, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby, of the male sex. You never returned. A few weeks later, through the elaborate inves- tigations of the Metropolitan police, the perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [miss prism starts in involuntary indignation.] But the baby was not there! [Everyone looks at miss prism.] Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]

Miss Pri. Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is forever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand- bag, in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I can never forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the bassinette, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

Jack. [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag? Miss Pri. Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing. Jack. Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on know-

ing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant. Miss Pri. I left it in the cloak room of one of the larger railway stations in London. Jack. What railway station? Miss Pri. [Quite crushed.] Victoria. The Brighton line. [Sinks into a chair.] Jack. I must retire to my room for a moment. Gwendolen, wait for me here. Gwen. If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life. [Exit jack in great excitement.] Chas. What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

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Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Lady Bra. I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. I need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.

[Noises heard overhead as if someone was throwing trunks about. Everyone looks up.]

Cec. Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated. Chas. Your guardian has a very emotional nature. Lady Bra. This noise is extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if he was having an argu-

ment. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing. Chas. [Looking up.] It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.] Lady Bra. I wish he would arrive at some conclusion. Gwen. This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

[Enter jack with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]

Jack. [Rushing over to miss prism.] Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examine it carefully before you speak. The happiness of more than one life depends on your answer.

Miss Pri. [Calmly.] It seems to be mine. Yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier days. Here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at Leamington. And here, on the lock, are my initials. I had forgot- ten that in an extravagant mood I had had them placed there. The bag is undoubt- edly mine. I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me. It has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years.

Jack. [In a pathetic voice.] Miss Prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag. I was the baby you placed in it.

Miss Pri. [Amazed.] You? Jack. [Embracing her.] Yes . . . Mother! Miss Pri. [Recoiling in indignant astonishment.] Mr. Worthing! I am unmarried! Jack. Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all, who has a

right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should there be one law for men, and another for women? Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace her again.]

Miss Pri. [Still more indignant.] Mr. Worthing, there is some error. [Pointing to lady bracknell.] There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.

Jack. [After a pause.] Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?

Lady Bra. I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not altogether please you. You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon’s elder brother.

Jack. Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all. I knew I had a brother! I always said I had a brother! Cecily, how could you have ever doubted that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of algernon.] Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother. Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, you young

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Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest: Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing 381

The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect in the future. You have never behaved to me like a brother in all your life.

Alg. Well, not till today, old boy, I admit. I did my best, however, though I was out of practise. [Shakes hands.]

Gwen. [To jack.] My own! But what own are you? What is your Christian name, now that you have become someone else?

Jack. Good Heavens!. . . I had quite forgotten that point. Your decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?

Gwen. I never change, except in my affections. Cec. What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen! Jack. Then the question had better be cleared up at once. Aunt Augusta, a

moment. At the time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I been chris- tened already?

Lady Bra. Every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.

Jack. Then I was christened! That is settled. Now, what name was I given? Let me know the worst.

Lady Bra. Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father. Jack. [Irritably.] Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name? Lady Bra. [Meditatively.] I cannot at the present moment recall what the General’s

Christian name was. But I have no doubt he had one. He was eccentric, I admit. But only in later years. And that was the result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind.

Jack. Algy! Can’t you recollect what our father’s Christian name was? Alg. My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. He died before I was

a year old. Jack. His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose, Aunt

Augusta? Lady Bra. The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic

life. But I have no doubt his name would appear in any military directory. Jack. The Army Lists of the last forty years are here. These delightful records

should have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and tears the books out.] M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly names they have—Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff, Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian names, Ernest, John. [Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernest after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.

Lady Bra. Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest. I knew I had some particular reason for disliking the name.

Gwen. Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the first that you could have no other name!

Jack. Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?

Gwen. I can. For I feel that you are sure to change. Jack. My own one!

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The iDeal Reader Oscar Wilde, ‘‘The Importance of Being Earnest’’

Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing

Chas. [To miss prism.] Laetitia! [Embraces her.] Miss Pri. [Enthusiastically.] Frederick! At last! Alg. Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last! Jack. Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last! Lady Bra. My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality. Jack. On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realized for the first time in my

life the vital Importance of Being Ernest.

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Questions for Discussion 1. Why is it important to be earnest? Is being earnest the same thing as being truthful? 2. What point does Wilde make about truth and falsehood? Is it acceptable for these char-

acters to deceive one another? 3. As a satire, what does this play satirize? What ills in society does the play isolate and

criticize? 4. In your opinion, is this play still relevant? In what way is it relevant, and in what

way is it not? 5. Why is Lady Bracknell necessary for the play to work? What would the play be like

without her? 6. One way the humor works in this play is that the characters often say the opposite of

what is expected. Find examples of this use of humor—why is this humor effective? 7. What are some of the puns with which Wilde peppers the play? What do they mean?

Questions for Reflection and Writing 1. Read an act or part of an act aloud with friends. Write about the experience. How

should this play be read to be most effective? 2. Look up “comedy of manners” in a dictionary of literary terms. How is this play a com-

edy of manners? 3. See a performance, live or taped. Write a review of the play. To extend this assignment,

read about how this play was received when it was first performed in 1895 and com- pare your review with critical or public response at the time.

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest: Reading with Questions for Discussion and Writing 383