The Merchant of Vengeance by Simon Hawke Page A

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