“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.”