“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.
“Forgive me, Ben,” said Thomas. “I see now that you have customers.”
“Will and Tuck are good friends of mine who came to visit.” Dickens replied.
“Perhaps we should depart, Ben,” Smythe said.
“Pray do not leave on my account, although I would not wish to burden you with my woeful tale of misfortune,” said Thomas. He stared at Smythe a moment. “Say, I know you, do I not?”
“Methinks you do,” said Smythe, finally placing him. “You ride a bay mare with a white blaze across her nose and white upon her forelegs.”
“The Rose!” said Thomas. “I remember now, you work at the Rose Theatre! That is how I know you, you are an ostler there.”
“Among other things,” said Smythe.
“And I have seen you there, as well,” Thomas said, looking at Shakespeare. “You are a player, are you not?”
“I am,” Shakespeare replied. “Will Shakespeare is my name.
And this is my good friend and fellow thespian Tuck Smythe.“
“Well met, my friends,” said Thomas. “Or mayhap poorly met, for I am in a sad state, indeed.”
“This is my good friend Thomas Locke,” said Dickens, introducing him. “I know him of old, when we both were young apprentices, before I went off to the wars. He is a tailor, and a right good credit to his craft.”
“Forgive me, good sirs,” Thomas said. “I am bereft of courtesy today. My manners have all left me. I can scarcely think. what my own name is, much less give it to others. Besides, I know now ‘tis not worth giving, for it becomes a plague upon the ears of those who hear it.”
“What speech is this?” asked Dickens with a frown. “What terrible misfortune has befallen you that you should so defame yourself?”
“Only this morning I awoke the happiest and most fortunate man in all of London,” Thomas said. “Now I am the most miserable and unfortunate man in all the world! Oh, call back yesterday! Bid time return! I was to wed a sweet and gentle lady whose every glance and smile had bestowed a lightness on my heart, but now Portia’s father has forbidden her to marry me and I am not allowed to see or speak with her again!”
“‘Why, what had you done?” asked Shakespeare.
“I was born!” said Thomas miserably, as he kept pacing back and forth. “Such is my guilty crime! My father is a Christian and my mother is a Jewess, which in the eyes of Jews and Christians all alike thus makes me born a Jew. And for naught but that accident of birth, Portia’s father has withdrawn consent for us to marry, saying that he will not have his family defiled by a Jew!”
“Here is a sad coincidence,” said Shakespeare softly in an aside to Smythe, who nodded.
“I am sorry, Thomas,” Dickens said. “Here, sit down and have a drink.” He poured a goblet from the bottle the apprentice brought, then poured goblets for Tuck and Smythe as well and handed them around.
As Thomas tossed back half the goblet in one gulp, Smythe asked, “Who is the girl’s father?”
“Henry Mayhew,” Dickens replied, “a prosperous haberdasher, and an insufferable stuffed shin. He is a widower with a beautiful young daughter possessed of grace and a most amiable disposition. Until now, he had found in Thomas nothing lacking, and had deemed him eminently suitable to take his daughter’s hand in marriage. His consent had already been given, and the marriage was to take place within a fortnight.”
“Now he has called it off and withdrawn his consent,” said Thomas bitterly. “And Portia is forbidden ever to see or speak. with me again.”
“But you have not lived as a Jew, Thomas,” Dickens said. “I have often seen you in church, and always known you to live life as a Christian.”
“Indeed, ‘tis so,” Thomas replied. “I was not raised in my mother’s faith, but in my father’s, not that he is the most Christian of all men, by any means, but he does go to church each Sunday. So I have always done, as well.”
“And what of your mother?” Shakespeare asked. “Had she become a Christian?”
Thomas shook his head. “She always went with my father to the church, but she was never truly converted to the faith. She was raised a Jew, and at heart she had always remained a Jew. Nor did my father ever try to force her to be otherwise. She was always circumspect in her belief, for she always knew that there were many who would condemn her for her faith. And who am I to judge her? She is my mother. But woe that I was ever born her son!”