Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare
Bassanio would have paid it to him, but said Portia, “No! He shall have
nothing but his bond.”
“You, a foreigner,” she added, “have sought to take the life of a
Venetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law, your life and goods are
forfeited. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.”
Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would have been shown to
Shylock had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the money-lender
forfeited half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle the other
half on his daughter's husband, and with this he had to be content.
Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to part
with the ring his wife had given him, and with which he had promised
never to part, and when on his return to Belmont he confessed as much to
Portia, she seemed very angry, and vowed she would not be friends with
him until she had her ring again. But at last she told him that it was
she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his friend's life, and
got the ring from him. So Bassanio was forgiven, and made happier
than ever, to know how rich a prize he had drawn in the lottery of the
caskets.
TIMON OF ATHENS
Four hundred years before the birth of Christ, a man lived in Athens
whose generosity was not only great, but absurd. He was very rich, but
no worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent and gave like Timon. If
anybody gave Timon a horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses.
If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered to repay it, Timon was
offended. If a poet had written a poem and Timon had time to read it, he
would be sure to buy it; and a painter had only to hold up his canvas in
front of Timon to receive double its market price.
Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his reckless mode of life.
When Timon's house was full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costly
wine, Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would say to himself,
“There are ten thousand candles burning in this house, and each of those
singers braying in the concert-room costs a poor man's yearly income a
night;” and he would remember a terrible thing said by Apemantus, one of
his master's friends, “O what a number of men eat Timon, and Timon sees
them not!”
Of course, Timon was much praised.
A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that it was not quite perfect
till Timon wore it. “You mend the jewel by wearing it,” he said. Timon
gave the diamond to a lord called Sempronius, and the lord exclaimed,
“O, he's the very soul of bounty.” “Timon is infinitely dear to me,”
said another lord, called Lucullus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse;
and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet.
But when Apemantus had listened to some of them, he said, “I'm going to
knock out an honest Athenian's brains.”
“You will die for that,” said Timon.
“Then I shall die for doing nothing,” said Apemantus. And now you know
what a joke was like four hundred years before Christ.
This Apernantus was a frank despiser of mankind, but a healthy one,
because he was not unhappy. In this mixed world anyone with a number
of acquaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of men, but does not
shun them, and boasts that he is never deceived by their fine speeches,
and is inwardly cheerful and proud. Apemantus was a man like that.
Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became much worse than Apemantus,
after the dawning of a day which we call Quarter Day.
Quarter Day is the day when bills pour in. The grocer, the butcher, and
the baker are all thinking of their debtors on that day, and the wise
man has saved enough money to be ready for them. But Timon had not; and
he did not only owe money for food. He owed it for jewels and horses and
furniture; and, worst of all, he owed it to money-lenders, who expected
him to pay twice as much as he had borrowed.
Quarter Day is a day when promises to pay are scorned, and on that day
Timon was asked for a large sum of money. “Sell some land,” he said
to his steward. “You have no land,” was the reply. “Nonsense! I had a
hundred, thousand acres,” said Timon. “You could have spent the price of
the world if you had possessed it,” said Flavius.
“Borrow some then,” said Timon; “try Ventidius.” He thought of Ventidius
because he had once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a creditor of
this young man. Ventidius was now rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude.
But not for all; so much did he owe! Servants were despatched with
requests for loans of money to several friends:
One servant (Flaminius) went to Lucullus. When he was announced Lucullus
said, “A gift, I warrant. I dreamt of a silver jug and basin last
night.” Then, changing his tone, “How is that honorable, free-hearted,
perfect gentleman, your master, eh?”
“Well in health, sir,” replied Flaminius.
“And what have you got there under your cloak?” asked Lucullus,
jovially.
“Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box, which, on my master's behalf, I
beg you to fill with money, sir.”
“La! la! la!” said Lucullus, who could not pretend to mean, “Ha! ha!
ha!” “Your master's one fault is that he is too fond of giving parties.
I've warned him that it was expensive. Now, look here, Flaminius, you
know this is no time to lend money without security, so suppose you
act like a good boy and tell him that I was not at home. Here's three
solidares for yourself.”
“Back, wretched money,” cried Flaminius, “to him who worships you!”
Others of Timon's friends were tried and found stingy. Amongst them was
Sempronius.
“Hum,” he said to Timon's servant, “has he asked Ventidius? Ventidius is
beholden to him.”
“He refused.”
“Well, have you asked Lucullus?”
“He refused.”
“A poor compliment to apply to me last of all,” said Sempronius, in
affected anger. “If he had sent to me at first, I would gladly have lent
him money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend him any now.”
“Your lordship makes a good villain,” said the servant.
When Timon found that his friends were so mean, he took advantage of
a lull in his storm of creditors to invite Ventidius and Company to a
banquet. Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and Company, were not in
the least ashamed, and they assembled accordingly in Timon's house, and
said to one another that their princely host had been jesting with them.
“I had to put off an important engagement in order to come here,” said
Lucullus; “but who could refuse Timon?”
“It was a real grief to me to be without ready money when he asked for
some,” said Sempronius.
“The same here,” chimed in a third lord.
Timon now appeared, and his guests vied with one another in apologies
and compliments. Inwardly sneering, Timon was gracious to them all.
In the banqueting ball was a table resplendent with covered dishes.
Mouths watered. These summer-friends loved good food.
“Be seated, worthy friends,” said Timon. He then prayed aloud to the
gods of Greece. “Give each man enough,” he said, “for if you, who are
our gods, were to borrow of men they would cease to adore you. Let men
love the joint more than the host. Let every score of guests contain
twenty villains. Bless my friends as much as they have blessed me.
Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap!”
The hungry lords were too much surprised by this speech to resent it.
They thought Timon was unwell, and, although he had called them dogs,
they uncovered the dishes.
There was nothing in them but warm water.
“May you never see a better feast,” wished Timon “I wash off the
flatteries with which you plastered me and sprinkle you with your
villainy.” With these words he threw the water into his guests' faces,
and then he pelted them with the dishes. Having thus ended the banquet,
he went into an outhouse, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever.
His next dwelling was a cave near the sea.
Of all his friends, the only one who had not refused him aid was a
handsome soldier named Alcibiades, and he had not been asked because,
having quarreled with the Government of Athens, he had left that town.
The thought that Alcibiades might have proved a true friend did not
soften Timon's bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discern
the fact that good cannot be far from evil in this mixed world. He
determined to see nothing better in all mankind than the ingratitude of
Ventidius and the meanness of Lucullus.
He became a vegetarian, and talked pages to himself as he dug in the
earth for food.
One day, when he was digging for roots near the shore, his spade struck
gold. If he had been a wise man he would have enriched himself quickly,
and returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the sight of the gold
vein gave no joy but only scorn to Timon. “This yellow slave,” he said,
“will make and break religions. It will make black white and foul fair.
It will buy murder and bless the accursed.”
He was still ranting when Alcibiades, now an enemy of Athens, approached
with his soldiers and two beautiful women who cared for nothing but
pleasure.
Timon was so changed by his bad thoughts and rough life that Alcibiades
did not recognize him at first.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“A beast, as you are,” was the reply.
Alcibiades knew his voice, and offered him help and money. But Timon
would none of it, and began to insult the women. They, however, when
they found he had discovered a gold mine, cared not a jot for his
opinion of them, but said, “Give us some gold, good Timon. Have you
more?”
With further insults, Timon filled their aprons with gold ore.
“Farewell,” said Alcibiades, who deemed that Timon's wits were lost; and
then his disciplined soldiers left without profit the mine which could
have paid their wages, and marched towards Athens.
Timon continued to dig and curse, and affected great delight when he dug
up a root and discovered that it was not a grape.
Just then Apemantus appeared. “I am told that you imitate me,” said
Apemantus. “Only,” said Timon, “because you haven't a dog which I can
imitate.”
“You are revenging yourself on your friends by punishing yourself,” said
Apemantus. “That is very silly, for they live just as comfortably as
they ever did. I am sorry that a fool should imitate me.”
“If I were like you,” said Timon, “I should throw myself away.”
“You have done so,” sneered Apemantus. “Will the cold brook make you a
good morning drink, or an east wind warm your clothes as a valet would?”
“Off with you!” said Timon; but Apemantus stayed a while longer and told
him he had a passion for extremes, which was true. Apemantus even made a
pun, but there was no good laughter to be got out of Timon.
Finally, they lost their temper like two schoolboys, and Timon said he
was sorry to lose the stone which he flung at Apemantus, who left him
with an evil wish.
This was almost an “at home” day for Timon, for when Apemantus had
departed, he was visited by some robbers. They wanted gold.
“You want too much,” said Timon. “Here are water, roots and berries.”
“We are not birds and pigs,” said a robber.
“No, you are cannibals,” said Timon. “Take the gold, then, and may it
poison you! Henceforth rob one another.”
He spoke so frightfully to them that, though they went away with full
pockets, they almost repented of their trade. His last visitor on that
day of visits was his good steward Flavius. “My dearest master!” cried
he.
“Away! What are you?” said Timon.
“Have you forgotten me, sir?” asked Flavius, mournfully.
“I have forgotten all men,” was the reply; “and if you'll allow that you
are a man, I have forgotten you.”
“I was your honest servant,” said Flavius.
“Nonsense! I never had an honest man about me,” retorted Timon.
Flavius began to cry.
“What! shedding tears?” said Timon. “Come nearer, then. I will love you