The Quality of Mercy
The quality of mercy is not strained,
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 thronéd 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 enthronéd 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.
So Portia replies, “The quality of mercy is not strained…” By this she means there is, in fact, no compulsion that can force Shylock to forgive. Mercy—a term that encompasses compassion, benevolence, leniency—can only come from within.
The word “strained,” however, carries other connotations. Our first thought, for instance, may be that Portia is saying that forgiveness is not as difficult as we think. It is, on the whole, much harder to hang on to hatred than to let it go. But when we do let it go, we feel not humiliation but relief.
The beautiful image of the “gentle rain” falling from “heaven” evokes in the most atmospheric way possible this quiet, intense rapture of relief. Saying these words aloud, we almost want to lift our head up to feel those cooling drops from the sky. They are a blessing themselves, freeing us from the bitterness of the past.
Earlier in the play, Shylock has himself cried out for sympathy. As a Jew, he rails against his neighbors’ anti-Semitism. (The man he is asked to forgive has called him a “misbeliever, cut-throat, dog” and spat at him in the street.) In a famous speech, he says: “If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?” To this day, these words remain the starkest, strongest, and most sensible statement against the stupidity of racism—the belief we do not all share a common humanity.
Shylock adds, “And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?” He has a point. Isn’t a failure to enact retribution a failure of justice, an abject giving in to those who wish us harm? Portia argues instead that forgiveness is not to sacrifice ourselves to our enemy: it is to act in our own interest, because it “blesses” us as well as the one we pardon. By the same logic, if we curse another’s life we curse ours too.
Far from being a mark of weakness, forgiveness belongs to the “mightiest” among us. To make her case, she conjures up the image of a king on his throne, wearing his crown and clutching his scepter. This is the image of man as all-powerful.
The king’s “temporal” power is maintained through force. His “awe and majesty” quickly translate into “dread and fear.” How easily a king can become a terrorizing despot, or, indeed, a corpse. His authority exists only in time—as transient as the day.
Mercy, however, relates to what is eternal. It relates to God. It is above the “sway” of monarchy or government, a word that captures their pomp and impotence. We talk of people being under the “sway” of a charismatic but corrupt friend, for instance. “Sway” also suggests something precarious, like a tower about to fall. So to last, any earthly power must remain true to the heart—true to our capacity for fellow feeling—which is also our spark of divinity.
The final phrase from the extract is both simple and ambiguous. Mercy “seasons” justice—meaning that it tempers its extremes. It helps us to find a golden mean of morality, a middle way that balances the need for a universal code of law with a respect for the individual. The word “seasons” also recalls the image of the rain. In the same way the rain fertilizes the land, so mercy fertilizes justice. In short, we can say that without mercy, the law would be tyranny; without justice, mercy would be moral suicide.
Does Shylock listen? No. In reply, he demands the fulfilment of the promised punishment. But before we condemn him, we must ask whether we are any different. What hatreds are we holding onto? What acts of mercy are we withholding from others—and ultimately from ourselves?
William Shakespeare (1564 –1616) was an English poet and playwright, often regarded as the greatest writer in the English language.
