The Merchant of Vengeance (6 page)

"Now that is an excellent idea," Dickens said. "I shall do just that. You should come and work for me, Tuck. You know your steel. You would make a splendid armourer."

Tuck smiled. "You have asked me before, Ben, and I fear my answer has still not changed."

"But why?" asked Dickens. "You do work for that cantankerous old smith Liam Bailey. What can he offer you that I cannot?"

"The freedom to come and go as I please, for one thing." Smythe replied. "And I enjoy working in a small smithy, for another. It reminds me of my boyhood, working with my Uncle Thomas. Besides, my first loyalty shall always be to our company, Ben, you know that."

"Aye, I know," said Dickens with a smile. "And I understand, too. I was a player once myself, remember. But 'tis indeed a pity. You would be a wonderful addition to my shop."

"You are too hard a taskmaster, Ben," Smythe replied with a grin. "I fear that you would grow impatient with me."

"Nonsense. But have it your way. My offer stands. There shall be a place for you here anytime you choose."

"Thank you, Ben," said Smythe. "Your kind offer means more to me than I can say. Perhaps I may even take you up on it one day. But if I may, I should like to discuss the purpose of our visit."

"By all means. I am all attention."

'Well," said Smythe, "we have considered that of all the people that we know, you are doubtless the most widely travelled and have thus seen much more of the world than anyone else of our acquaintance."

"Perhaps," said Dickens with a shrug. "I have travelled widely, that is true, and I have seen much. I would not pretend that this has given me great stores of wisdom, but I may have learned a thing or two along the way. If my experience can be of any benefit to you, then please say how I may be of service."

"Do you happen to know any Jews?" asked Shakespeare.

Dickens raised his eyebrows. "Now, there is a curious question! Of all the things you could have asked of me, I must say, I would never have expected that. Why do you ask?"

"Will is intent upon writing a play about a Jew, so as to outdo Kit Marlowe's Jew of Malta," Tuck replied.

"Well now, you need not have put it quite that way," Shakespeare said, somewhat petulantly.

"How else should I have put it?" Smythe asked.

"You could have simply said that I was considering writing a play about a Jew and left it at that. You need not have added that I was trying to outdo Kit Marlowe. That makes it seem as if I am trying to compete with him."

"But you are trying to compete with him. You told me so yourself."

'Well, never in so many words."

"As I recall, it took you a great multitude of words to say so. I merely said it much more sparingly."

"Perhaps you should be the one to write the play, then!"

"I do not pretend to be a poet… unlike some people of my acquaintance. "

"Aghh.' Aghh! Shakespeare clutched his chest theatrically.

"Stabbed to the quick! Oh, traitorous blade! Et tu, Tuckus! Et tu."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" said Smythe, rolling his eyes.

"I have known a number of Jews, as it happens," Dickens said, watching them with a bemused expression. "Or was that merely a rhetorical question?"

"'What are they like?" asked Shakespeare. "Are they at all like Englishmen, or are they very foreign in their nature? And what do you suppose it means to be a Jew?"

"Well, that is a rather difficult thing to say," Dickens replied with a contemplative frown. "Although I have met some Jews during my travels, I make no claim to any true knowledge of their religion, so as to all the ways in which 'tis different from ours, I could not even begin to tell you. As to your question about their seeming foreign, I suppose that they might seem rather foreign to most Englishmen. Their customs are very different from ours in many ways, and yet in others they are very much the same. I cannot say what it means to be a Jew, for in truth only a Jew could tell you that. I can venture to say, however, that to be a Jew must require great strength of faith, for I can think of no faith that has been so sorely tested."

"You mean because they are so reviled by Christians?" Smythe asked.

"In part," Dickens replied. "But at the same time, 'tis not so simple as all that. Here in England, they were driven out many years ago, save for a small number who remained and were confined to certain areas, tolerated in large part only because there was a need for them. But in other lands, if they have not likewise been driven out, they have often been very harshly used. And yet despite that, they still cling to their faith. All I can say is that a faith that can claim such strong adherents under such duress must surely offer much to its believers."

"Ben, you said that those who had remained in England after most of them were driven out were tolerated only because there was a need for them," said Smythe. "What did you mean by that? What need?"

"One of the oldest and most common needs in all the world, Tuck," replied Dickens with a shrug. "The need for money."

"Ah. I have heard it said that Jews are greedy in their love of money," Shakespeare said.

"Have you, indeed?" said Dickens with a wry smile.

"Why do you smile so?" Shakespeare asked.

"Because I have heard it said, also," Dickens replied. "And yet, have you ever considered why people would say so, and then, for that matter, if it were even true?"

Shakespeare shrugged. "I must confess to you that I had not. At least, not until this very moment."

"And so what does your present consideration tell you?" Dickens asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Having never had any dealings with a Jew, nor even met one, I cannot in truth say yea or nay to that," said Shakespeare.

"Indeed, and neither can most Englishmen," said Dickens. "Nevertheless, I have heard it oft repeated as if 'twere gospel. I think 'tis because the Jews are oft engaged in the trade of money-lending. But why, do you suppose? Why that particular trade more than any other?"

"Truly, I have no idea. Because they have some special aptitude for it, perhaps?" said Smythe.

"Well, some may, and some may not," Dickens replied, "as would be the case with any man, in any trade, whether he be Jew or Christian. However, if he were a Christian, and thought himself truly devout in his belief, then he could not choose to be a money-lender, for the Holy Scripture forbids usury."

"It does?" asked Smythe. "I must confess, I have little knowledge of such things, save for The Poor Man’s paternoster, from which my uncle read to me when I was a boy."

"Well, I am no great scholar in such things myself" said Dickens. "As it happens, ‘'twas a Jew who explained it to me, as I shall now explain to you. In the Bible, there is a verse in which God says, 'If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as an usurer, neither shalt thou lay upon him usury.' Therefore, if a Christian wishes to remain devout, he must perforce refrain from the trade of money-lending, for to profit from it would be usury. To a Jew, however, the words 'my people' could be considered to apply only to other Jews."

"I see," said Shakespeare, nodding. "Thus it would follow that if one were a Jew, then nothing would forbid the lending of money at a profit to those who were not your people."

"Just so," Dickens replied. "And therein lies the rub. For in almost every nation where their wandering tribes have spread, the Jews have been forbidden to engage in one trade after another, until only one was left to them, the trade of money-lending, which was, conveniently, the only one forbidden to devout Christians. Thus, forced by Christians into the only trade that was left open to them, the Jews then became reviled by Christians for engaging in it."

"But there are more than a few Christian moneylenders here in London, are there not?" asked Shakespeare.

"Oh, indeed, there are," Dickens replied. "Not all Christians are so devout in their adherence to the Holy Scripture as they are in their pursuit of profit, which is why there came a time when Italian and French bankers started to arrive in England and the Jews could safely be expelled, for once there was enough Christian money to be borrowed, one did not require money borrowed from the Jews."

"I Cannot imagine what it must be like to be thrown out of my own country," Smythe said, shaking his head.

"Can you imagine what it must be like to know you do not even have a country?" Dickens replied. "We were born here in this land and can thus count ourselves Englishmen and Christians, but a Jew who has been born here can only count himself a Jew. And even then, he must do so circumspectly."

"The Jews have your sympathy, it seems," said Shakespeare. "No more so than anyone who is unjustly used, Will," Dickens replied. "Perhaps that is what having been a 'soldier of misfortune' has caught me. I have seen men unjustly used too many times to unjustly use a man myself. Now, I shall give a man his just desserts, mind you, as I threw out that laggard who forged yon miserable blade, but to judge a man because of what his faith is or who his people are? That is not justice in my view."

"Nor mine," said Smythe. "I, for one, should not like to be judged for who my father is, much less judged for his forebears. I would much prefer to be judged for my own self."

"As would I, Tuck, as would I," said Dickens. "But then, there are many who do not feel as we do. 'Twas not all that long ago, remember, when Protestants were persecuted under the rule of 'Bloody Mary' right here in our own land. Now the tables have been turned and the Catholics must hide their priests in cubby-holes. And I recall only too well those villainous roaring boys Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, along with their murderous crew, the Steady Boys, who wanted nothing better than to break the head of every foreigner in London, for no better reason than that they were foreign. It shames me now to think that I once counted them my friends. Their hatred of all foreigners brought about the murder of my good friend Leonardo, and then doomed them, as well."

"A fate they richly deserved," said Shakespeare emphatically. "For the murder, aye," said Dickens. "But what of the hate that drove them to it?"

"Well, were they not punished for that also?" Smythe asked.

"Of course," said Dickens. "But what I meant was that they had to learn that hate from somewhere. No child is born with hate. It must be taught. And children learn best from the examples that they see around them. 'Tis a pity that they do not learn more love than hate."

"A most ironic sentiment coming from an armourer," said Shakespeare.

"Perhaps," Dickens replied. "If this were a better world, or, more to the point, if we who peopled it were better, then there would have been no need for me to have apprenticed in this trade and I would instead have learned another. But a weapon does not kill by itself. It takes a man to wield it. And he may choose to wield it to oppress another or else to defend himself. The choice is his, not mine. For my part, I would be just as pleased to see every weapon that I made hung upon a wall and never taken down save to be polished and hung up once again."

"In that event, what would it matter if a blade were made well or poorly, so long as its appearance was pleasing to the eye?" Shakespeare asked.

"I shall reply to your question with another question, Will," said Dickens. "If you wish to write a play about a Jew, then why not simply write one in which you imagine your Jew howsoever you might please? Why ask what a Jew is like? And how Jews may be different from ourselves? And whether or not 'tis true that they are greedy? Why not simply make your Jew out of whole cloth, repeating all the things that you have heard said about them, whether they be true or not? 'What difference would it make, one way or the other, so long as the play itself was pleasing to the audience?"

Shakespeare smiled and nodded. "I can see why you are an excellent armourer, Ben. When you drive home your point, you make your thrust sharp and to the quick. You are quite right, of course. 'Tis not enough simply to satisfy the audience. A good poet must first satisfy himself. And even though the audience might not be aware of the play's faults, I would be aware of them, and that is what would matter most."

"You see?" said Dickens, clapping him upon the shoulder. "We are not so very different, after all. One good craftsman can always understand another, even if their crafts are not the same, because at the heart of it being true to your craft means crafting truly. Do you not agree, Tuck?"

"Oh, I agree completely," Smythe replied. "My Uncle Thomas oft expressed a similar sentiment. He used to say, 'To thine own self be true.' He meant do what you know is right, regardless of what others may think or counsel."

"To thine own self be true. I like that," Shakespeare said. "I wish I had thought of it."

"Never fear," Smythe said, "you shall."

"Go suck an egg."

The front door of the shop suddenly swung open with a slam, and a very agitated-looking young man came rushing in. "Ben.! Ben!"

Dickens turned toward him with consternation. "Thomas! What is it? "What is wrong?"

"Oh, Ben, a dreadful thing has happened! I am lost! I am undone!" the young man cried.

To Smythe, the young man looked familiar. Tall, slim, and dark, he was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, clean shaven, with well-formed, handsome features. His shoulder-length black hair was in a state of disarray, no doubt from running through the streets while clutching his bonnet in his hand. It was a soft cap of dove gray velvet, matching his short cloak, and he kept fumbling with it, crushing it up in his hands and turning it nervously, apparently without being aware of what he was doing.

"'What has happened, Thomas?" Dickens asked with concern. "Good now, sit, you look all out of breath." He pulled out a stool.

Thomas shook his head. "Nay, I cannot," he replied. "I must stand, I cannot sit. I am in such a turmoil, I cannot think what to do. I feel as if my heart shall burst!"

"'What are you all gaping at?" Dickens shouted at his workers, who had stopped everything to stare at the new arrival. "Get back to work! You, Robert Go fetch some wine! Be quick about it!" One of the apprentices immediately jumped to obey, and Dickens turned back to the upset young man.