Portia and the Three Caskets
© Jinny Webber, 2017
Published in Splickety Love, February, 2017
“Good riddance!” Portia slams the door. “This test is infuriating!” She yanks the curtain closed over the three caskets, gold, silver, and lead. “What was my father thinking, subjecting me to all these tedious fops? I’ll have to marry the one who guesses right.”
“The Prince of Aragon chose silver, my lady,” Nerissa says. “The inscription fooled him.”
“Indeed.” Portia laughs. “‘Who chooses me shall get as much as he deserves.’ Which was a fool’s head. But who deserves me, I should like to know?”
She turns toward the window and gazes down over Venice and the Adriatic stretching to the horizon, dotted with islands and afloat with the Venetian navy. Is there no real man anywhere?
Next day Bassanio arrives at Belmont Castle in peacock velvet with a bejeweled sword case at his belt. A handsome man, Portia thinks, though subject of Venetian gossip. She wishes she could remember the details.
Bassanio greets Portia with courtly grace and air-kisses her hand. “Your company is such a joy, lady, that with your permission I shall delay making my choice by singing for you.”
Portia nods, and Bassanio takes up a lute and plays “Greensleeves.” She wishes his voice weren’t so thin.
The song ends; Nerissa opens the curtain to reveal the caskets.
“Thank you for your song, Bassanio,” Portia says. “Now make your selection.”
He reads the inscription on the gold casket: “Who chooses me shall gain what many men desire.” He glances at the other two, scoffing at the word “deserves” on the silver casket. At the inscription on the lead casket, Who chooses me must give and hazard all he has, Bassanio laughs aloud.
“The key to the gold casket, please,” he says. “That is you, Portia. The golden lady whom all desire.”
These words jar Portia’s memory of the gossip from the Rialto, and she holds her breath as Bassanio unlocks the casket.
Inside rests a death’s head and a scroll. He reads it aloud.
“All that glitters is not gold . . .
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.”
Bassanio looks stricken. “How can this be? I love you Portia, I—”
“Farewell, Bassanio.”
“But—but—”
Nerissa closes the door behind him. “You two would have been perfect. I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t be. Bassanio borrowed the money for his fine attire from the merchant Antonio, who had to borrow it himself, I hear, on surety of his trading ships. Bassanio is a spendthrift with no income. Of course he would want to marry me and become lord of Belmont.”
Nerissa looks crestfallen. “But you must marry.”
“Not Bassanio.”
Next day, Othello the Moor, as he’s known, appears, fresh from being honored by the Venetian senate for commanding their naval defeat of the Turks.
His noble stature and coppery brown skin take Portia’s breath away. Othello greets her with friendly warmth, no chivalry, no air-kiss, and his deep voice touches her soul.
“May I choose between the caskets?”
“Not yet, Othello. Tell me of your perilous adventures.”
“There’s plenty of time for that, lady.” He walks over to the caskets and reads the inscriptions, smiling at the one on the lead casket. “I have hazarded all at sea and won. Why not do the same for the hand of such a woman as you, Portia?”
Portia’s heart glows. Othello looks at her as if seeing the person within.
“I choose lead, which makes nails to secure our ships, roofs to protect us. Lead is safety and love without artifice.” Othello unlocks the casket and lifts out a portrait miniature of Portia on a cord. He loops it around his neck, beaming her a generous smile, then reads the scroll aloud. It ends,
“If you be well pleased with this,
And hold your fortune for your bliss,
Turn you where your lady is,
And claim her with a loving kiss.”
He kneels before her. “Will you marry me, Portia?”
Her father’s terms require no proposal. Doubly pleased, Portia steps into his arms. “I am yours, Othello. Kiss me.”
His kiss promises love and caring forever.