THE MAN IN THE ARENA

          Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.

   —William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice (2.7.11-12)

Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice lifts the curtain on a world full of chance. Love and friendship, business ventures, law, justice, the merchant economy itself—any prize worth pursuing in the Merchant’s world (and our own) involves a level of delicious risk. Enraptured, we watch as ships sink, law fails, and some fall. But some win. Flashing lights, ringing bells, shouts of glee and cries of agony all beckon us to play: to hazard all we have. How do we decide which games to play? Once we are in, are we all in? Do we all play by the same rules? A deeply unfunny comedy seemingly obsessed with winners and losers, Merchant sheds murky light on what drives us to gamble at the grayscale game of life.

Like some kind of seventeenth-century casino, The Merchant of Venice is excess. Mythical lands, massive sums of money, unthinkable terms of marriage—the play is bursting at the seams. And in this scurrying, unsettled society, we cannot help but think that everything goes a little too far. We wonder first at the casket choosing, where the terms did not need to be so harsh that failure to win Portia’s hand bans a suitor from ever marrying: “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 marriage. Therefore be advised” (2.1.40-44). But then, Portia did not need to be so cruel in rejecting her suitors. Effectively queen of Belmont, she still exercises her cruelty and derision for sport (1.2.39-99). Later, Jessica and Lorenzo did not need to steal from Shylock to elope, foolishly wasting his money and, to Shylock’s anguish, his late wife’s ring. “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,” he cries (3.1.119-22). Then again, Shylock did not need to insist on such a bloody form of revenge against Antonio: “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 favor I will extend this friendship” (1.3.177-80). Neither did Portia need to cause Shylock so much suffering to save Antonio—her bloodless legal interpretation would have sufficed while still making an example of Shylock. And on and on. Still, we cannot say Merchant’s actors are victims of their circumstances. Portia’s suitors willingly agree to the terms of the casket game and accept their fate: choosing wrong, Morocco admits, “Thus losers part” (2.8.85). Antonio too willingly agrees to the terms of the bond—“Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond” (1.3.183). These characters weigh their options, placing themselves in dangerous situations in the hopes of winning something they deem worth the risk. 

Perhaps the most stunning example of a character assuming risk is Shylock’s trial. He stands alone, but it is clear Shylock thinks he has a shot at revenge. Surely, he has been dealt a poor hand. But he also chooses to be the villain, hedging his bets on the “bad guy.” Armed, Shylock warns, “The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction” (3.1.70-71). With Antonio’s life at stake, Portia plays too. We can say she cheats—impersonating a lawyer, pulling the alien clause at the last moment—but ambiguity still runs circles around us. For all her manipulation, Portia does not tempt Shylock with anything he did not already want. She simply draws from him as much of himself as possible. And loathe as we may be to admit it, Portia is brilliant. We are forced to empathize with both questionable actors; their questionable actions and their questionable motivations, because the situation was indeed dire. Had Portia not intervened, Antonio would have been killed. But Shylock’s utter destruction at the trial’s close is no less difficult to accept. We can reason with ourselves that Portia did roundabout “bad” things for a roundabout “good” cause, and Shylock tried to do straightforward “bad” things for a straightforward “bad” cause. Too late, he realizes the game always favors the house.

It is precisely the nature of the game, this winning and losing, that calls us to condemn these characters while inhabiting their heartspace. Shylock’s trial almost puts the jury on trial, and the audience as well—we are, after all, the play’s jury. Is this yet another game, a great author’s experiment to see how much manipulation we can bear before we throw up our hands, unable to pass judgment? Who is entertaining whom here? But Shylock is not the play’s only loser. Besides the failed suits of Morocco and Arragon and Portia’s loss of home, independence, and companion in Nerissa, there is also the friendship between Antonio and Bassanio to consider. Although nearly overshadowed by Bassanio’s seemingly blissful marriage, there is loss here too: Antonio can no longer claim to be the sole object of his affection. We are left feeling that, in spite of his generosity towards Bassanio, the play’s eponym is left entirely alone at its close.

For all this excess, we feel the pain of even those who we want to lose. More than a peek through a hidden window, Merchant forces us to play: to participate, to choose a side. We all risk something, left to wonder: is the game rigged? Perhaps it would be better to ask if any game is not. At least for the audience, no. This little right-and-wrong game of ours is rigged, because there are no answers here—only those rewards rendered attractive because so few win them. Here, we do not choose our prize. We choose to play.