Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“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 And for naught but that accident of birth, Portia’s father has withdrawn consent for us to marry, saying that he will not have his family defiled by a Jew!”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“Now he has called it off and withdrawn his consent,” said Thomas bitterly.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!”

“Oh, but that is a bitter thing to say about a parent,” Smythe replied.

“Aye, truly, and ashamed am I to speak. thus,” Thomas said, hanging his head. Then he looked up again, with anguish in his eyes. “But what am I to do? I love Portia with all my heart! She is my world, my life, my breath! I cannot bear the thought of losing her, of never being allowed to see or speak with her again! If you had ever been in love, then you would understand my desperate plight!”

“I understand, perhaps better than you know,” Smythe replied, thinking of Elizabeth. “But what does your Portia say to this?”

“I do not know,” said Thomas, hanging his head and running his fingers through his hair, clutching at his thick locks in exasperation. “I have not spoken with her since her father banished me from his house and from her sight.”

“Well,” said Smythe, “‘twould seem, then, that you must contrive a way to see her, and discover where her heart stands, with her duty to her father or her love for you.”

“I am certain that her heart shall be with me,” said Thomas, “but her obedience must perforce be to her father.”

“Must it?” Smythe asked.

Shakespeare glanced at him, raising his eyebrows with surprise, but saying nothing.

“What do you mean?” asked Thomas. “How could it be otherwise?”

“If you truly cannot bear to lose her, and if she is, indeed, your world, your life, your breath, then methinks that you must take the measure of her love,” said Smythe.

“Speak then, and tell me how,” said Thomas, looking up at him intently.

“You must find a way to see her so that you can ask her how she truly feels,” said Smythe. “If she truly loves you as you believe she does, as you say you love her, and if your love for one another is truly as great and all-encompassing as you believe, why then, you could elope and make your way to some place where you could live your lives together, as you wish, without hindrance from her father.”

“You are right!” said Thomas, banging his fist upon the table. “You give sound counsel, friend! That is just what I shall do!”

“Well now, wait, Thomas,” Dickens said, glancing at Smythe and taking Thomas by the arm as he got quickly to his feet. “Stay a moment and do not act too rashly. Before your passion drives you to take a course you may regret, consider that you have now nearly completed your apprenticeship. And what is more, your work has begun to attract favourable notice here in London. One year more and you shall become a journeyman, and you shall be well on your way to making a good life for yourself.”

“But what good would any of that be without the woman that I love?” asked Thomas.

“What good would having the woman that you love be without having the means to properly provide for her?” Dickens countered. “And that is something that Portia should consider, also. ‘Tis always best to think with your head and not your heart.”

“That is a simple enough thing for you to say, Ben,” said Thomas, “for you have married the woman that you loved. Your happiness is now assured, and you may think of other things. But I can think. of nothing else but Portia and how I cannot bear to go another day without her!” He turned to Smythe. “Thank you, my friend, for your good counsel and your understanding. I shall do as you advise. And if her love for me is true, as I believe her love to be, then we together shall determine what our course must be!”

He clapped Smythe on the shoulders and hurried out the door. Shakespeare sighed. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” he muttered, “for love is blind and lovers cannot see.”

“What?” said Smythe. “Why do you look upon me so, Ben, with such a February face, so full of frost and storm and cloudiness?”

“I shall wager that he thinks what I am thinking, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, with a disapproving grimace, “that you have just done poor Thomas a profound disservice. If that wench is as besotted with him as he is with her, then they shall doubtless follow your advice and run away together, and thus they will ruin both their lives.”

“But why?” asked Smythe. “Why should their lives be ruined if they are both together and in lover I should think they would be happy!”

“They would, indeed, be together and in love and happy at the very first,” said Shakespeare wryly, “but at the same time, they would be together and in love and poor. For a time, a short time, they could live on love, but ere long, there would doubtless be children from that love, and then they would be together and in love and poor and hungry and with children, and not long after that, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and unhappy. And soon thereafter, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and miserable with one another, a state commonly known to one and all as a settled marriage.”

“I am well familiar with your thoughts on marriage, Will,” said Smythe defensively, “but they are not shared by one and all. There are people who find happiness in being together, even if they are poor and hungry and struggling to survive, for being together in such circumstances is a far better thing than being alone.”