The Merchant of Vengeance Read online

  "'Tis the man that I have soured on, more so than the work, although in truth, after this insufferable exhibition, I doubt that I shall be purchasing any more of his pamphlets at the bookstalls. However, what I had said about his plays was what I had felt about his plays, even prior to this encounter. I was never very fond of them. 'Twas his pamphlets that I liked. They seemed much more direct and colourful, and not at all pretentious. He may write well, I do not know, for I do not presume to be a judge upon such matters, but as for how his work plays on the stage before an audience, one need not be a learned university man to be able to determine that. His plays have not done well for us. At least, not until you had doctored them somewhat. And even then, they have not drawn much of an audience, unlike Marlowe, who packs them in with his Tamburlaine and his Doctor Faustus and his Jew of Malta. His plays are so exciting that people cannot seem to get enough of him."

  "Aye, for an Englishman, Kit is very much a Roman," Shakespeare said with a smile. "He gives them bread and circuses upon the stage. And therein, Tuck, lies the rub, you see. The audiences for plays have changed. Perhaps men such as Tom Kyd and Kit Marlowe have changed them by whetting their appetites for something new, a brew more heady than the small beer they have hitherto imbibed. Perhaps these new poets have merely responded to their jaded appetites for something more by perceiving their thirst and thus pouring stronger beverage for them. Either way, there is no question that Greene's day has come and gone. In their excesses on the stage, Kyd and Marlowe have exceeded him, so to speak. What remains to be seen now is what shall exceed them."

  "It seems difficult to believe that anything could be much more excessive than Kit Marlowe," Smythe said wryly.

  Shakespeare grinned, knowing it was not just Marlowe's plays Smythe was referring to. The flamboyant young poet's name had become nearly synonymous with debauchery and decadence. After a chance encounter with them in a London pub, it was Marlowe who had steered them toward their first jobs with a company of players. He had seemed like a wild man then, and in the few intervening years he had only grown even more rebellious and intemperate. Although his plays were now all the rage in London, he was treading on very dangerous ground with his outrageous behaviour and public utterances.

  "Marlowe has only cracked open the door," said Shakespeare. "It remains for someone else to kick it open fully. I have said before, and I believe it still, that the time for jigs and pratfalls on the stage is past. Each new production of an old standby from our traditional repertoire falls flatter than the last. The groundlings have seen such things before, and they are tired of them. They are ready now for something different, something better. Marlowe, for all his cleverness and undoubted gifts, only gives them something much more grand. He gives them spectacle, which is why Ned Alleyn so relishes playing his work. Marlowe writes speeches that a bombastic player like Ned can seize between his teeth and tear into like a rabid hound. The audiences love it. 'Strewth, I love it, as well. When he is fully in his element, Ned is a joy to watch, for all that he can often be insufferable to know. Yet mark me well, it shall not be very long before the novelty of Marlowe's grand excesses also starts to pale, and then what shall we feed these hungry groundlings?"

  "What?" asked Smythe with interest.

  "Meat," said Shakespeare. 'We shall feed them meat."

  "Meat?"

  "Aye, once they are done with bread and circuses, my friend, they shall want meat. Something with more sustenance and substance. And I shall do my utmost to provide it for them."

  "And just how do you propose to do that?"

  "By being a very careful cook," said Shakespeare, "and not just tossing things haphazardly into a pot without giving due consideration to how the flavours marry. 'Tis that blend of flavours that gives a dish its fullest texture. Consider Marlowe's Tamburlaine, if you will, the very apotheosis of cruelty. Not since the ancient Greeks have we seen such terrible savagery portrayed upon the stage. And then witness Barabas, Marlowe's Jew of Malta. He slaughters more people than Caligula, each murder more gruesome than the last, until he meets his end in the last act by falling into a cauldron of hot oil and thereupon delivers his final speech, all whilst being boiled alive, mind you! Now I ask you, Tuck., as a man who has worked long hours at the forge and doubtless knows, how likely is one to declaim a bombastic, dying soliloquy whilst one's flesh is being cooked?"

  Smythe chuckled. "Not very likely, I fear. When one's flesh is being burned, one is much more likely to scream with agony than deliver up a fustian speech. Bur then the audiences do not seem to mind that overmuch."

  "Granted, 'tis because they are being given something different, something novel," Shakespeare said. "And they are hungry for such novelty at present. But in time, methinks that they shall look upon such things askance. Tamburlaine is cruelty made manifest in man, but how is man made manifest in Tamburlaine? Barabas, as we have agreed, is the very embodiment of evil, but take away that evil and what do you have left?"

  "A man who has been wronged?" said Smythe.

  "Aye, perhaps," said Shakespeare, "but then where is he?" Smythe frowned. "What do you mean, where is he?"

  "Surely, not upon the stage," said Shakespeare, with a shrug. "Aside from the fact that he is bent upon revenge, and that in this quest no evil seems to be beyond him, what else do we truly know of him?"

  "Why… that he is a Jew, I suppose."

  "But then how do we know that Barabas is a Jew?"

  Smythe frowned again. "Why, we know he is a Jew because we are told he is a Jew. I am not certain what you mean, Will."

  "Well, then, let us ask ourselves, what is a Jew?"

  "One who is not a Christian, I suppose," said Smythe. "One who has rejected Jesus." He shrugged. "I cannot say much more than that for certain, for methinks that I have never met a Jew."

  "And you are not alone, for neither have most Englishmen," said Shakespeare. "The Jews were expelled from England some three hundred years ago, in the time of King Edward I. What few Jews remained behind had all converted, though whether such conversion was a matter of faith or of expediency is another matter altogether. I, for one, know little more of Jews than you do. One hears the sorts of things that people say, but then in truth, these sorts of things are little different from the manner of speech they bruit about the Spaniard.. or the Flemish or the French, which is to say that most of it is likely arrant nonsense. We English seem to dislike foreigners, simply because they happen to be foreign. They mayor may not be dislikable in and of themselves, but that is quite beside the point. The fact that they are foreign is enough for us. Hence, we dislike them."

  "Whether we truly know anything of them or not, you mean."

  "Just so," said Shakespeare. "Marlowe wished to present the audience with something evil on the stage, a character whom they could loathe and despise and fear all at the same time. Thus,. he gave them a Jew, someone who was foreign, thus engaging the English predilection to despise the foreigner; someone who was not a Christian, thus invoking the one thing Catholic and Protestant alike could both agree to despise; someone who already has the reputation of being so undesirable and disagreeable that nearly all his kind have long since been driven out of England. Ergo, they must be evil. And, to add the crowning touch, he bestowed upon his Jew the name of Barabas, a name fraught with hatred of literally biblical proportions. And lo, there he stands before you now upon the stage," said Shakespeare, gesturing dramatically toward the street in front of them, as if he had just conjured Marlowe's character up out of his imagination. "All that is left for us to do is clothe him in a black robe and skullcap, add a nose like a promontory, and give him a wig of black tresses falling down about the ears in ringlets. Hola! Barabas, the dreaded, evil Jew of Malta! Boo! Hiss!"

  Smythe laughed.

  "But that is not a man, you see," said Shakespeare. "That is a masque, a Morris dancer, something all done up in bells and ribbons, nothing but a caricature. That is Marlowe's Tamburlaine, but merely in another costume. And yet, who is he?
Who is this Jew?" he asked rhetorically, waving his anus in the air. "What does he think? What does he feel? Has he a wife at home, a child? Does he love them? Does he worry about them? Does he have fears of his own that keep him up at night? And if he is, indeed, as evil as Kit Marlowe paints him, then what has made him so?"

  "All very good questions," Smythe replied, nodding. "But 'twould be somewhat tiresome to answer all those questions for the audience in the prologue of a play, would it not?"

  "Not if they were shown the answers," Shakespeare replied. "Shown the answers? How?"

  "As a part of the unfolding of the action of the play," said

  Shakespeare. "'The more I think about it, Tuck, the more I become convinced that 'tis in this direction that my true path lies! Forget Marlowe's Jew. I will show you a Jew, by God! I will show you one who has a reason to be evil! A reason that any man can readily understand!"

  "But Will, you have just admitted that you know no more of Jews than I do," Smythe replied. "And I, for one, know nothing of them. Why, I do not think I could tell a Jew if I chanced upon one on this very street."

  "Well, that is a minor problem," Shakespeare said.

  "A minor problem? How can you write a Jew when you have never even met a Jew?"

  "Marlowe clearly never met a Jew, and yet he wrote one."

  "Aye, and you have just finished telling me that his Jew was nothing more than a caricature. If you are determined to outdo him, then you shall have to create a character that is more man than masque, more flesh than bells and ribbons, as you put it."

  "Well, a Jew is a man at heart, like any other, surely," Shakespeare said. "Like any other man, he feels sadness, he feels anger, he feels pain…"

  "But as you said yourself, Will, where is he?" Smythe replied. "What makes him who he is and what he is? After all, if you are going to outdo Marlowe's Jew of Malta, then do you not think that you should at least learn something of your subject?"

  Shakespeare pursed his lips. "Indeed, you are quite right, Tuck.. I suppose I should. The question is… where will we find a Jew in a country that drove them out three hundred years ago?"

  Smythe grunted. "I must admit, you have me there. But you did say that some remained behind, did you not?"

  "Apparently, a small number who converted."

  Smythe shrugged. "Well then, can we not find one of them?"

  "I would not have the faintest idea where to look" said Shakespeare with a shrug.

  "Well, we know a lot of people. Surely, somebody must know."

  "Surely, someone must. We shall ask around, then."

  "What about your play about King Henry?" Smythe asked.

  "'Twas an ambitious effort, as I recall. Do you not think. you should complete that first, before beginning something new?"

  "I have very nearly finished it. And I have already begun work upon another."

  "What, this one about the Jew, you mean?"

  "Nay, that is still merely an idea, an inspiration, if you will.

  Still, I think it may be a worthy one. 'Twould be tempting to beat Marlowe at his own game and have everyone in London know I did it."

  "Tempting, perhaps," said Smythe. "But whether it be worthy is another matter. For my part, I am not convinced that this is the best idea you have ever had."

  "Great plays can spring from inferior ideas," Shakespeare said. "Look at Marlowe."

  "Aye, look at him," Smythe said wryly. "Marlowe dances on the edge of the abyss. His reputation is becoming infamous, and he seems to infuriate as many patrons as he pleases. Are you quite certain that you want to emulate him?"

  "Not in all things, perhaps," replied Shakespeare with a grin. "But I could do with emulating his success. And our company could certainly do with some new plays. One takes one's ideas where one finds them, eh?"

  "If you say so. Either way, you humoured me in my idea to go and search out Robert Greene, much to your regret now, I am quite sure, so I suppose the very least that I can do is humour you in your desire to out-Marlowe, Marlowe. Let us only hope that you do not wind up suffering by comparison."

  "I can assure you, Tuck, that when I am done, I will have penned a Jew that shall prove much more memorable than Marlowe's Jew of Malta."

  "Famous last words?" said Smythe, cocking an eyebrow at him.

  "We shall see, my friend," said Shakespeare.

  "We shall, indeed," said Smythe. "Now all we need to do is find a Jew in a country where there are none."

  Chapter 2

  You do not look well, Elizabeth," said her friend Antonia, as they sat upon a bench, embroidering together in the garden. "Does my presence weary you?"

  Elizabeth Darcie shook her head, brushing back a stray blond tress that had fallen loose from underneath her linen coif. "Nay, 'tis not so, my good, dear friend. I am neither weary nor yet unwell, thanks be to God. I am but feeling a bit sad today."

  "I had hoped to cheer you with my company," Antonia said, putting down her needlework on the stone bench. "Yet I perceive that I have failed."

  "Nay, I am grateful for your company, Antonia, truly," Elizabeth replied. "If my mood is pensive this day, the blame lies not with you. I was merely thinking of our friend Portia's impending marriage."

  "And this makes you sad?" Antonia cocked an eyebrow at her friend. "Is it for her that you feel sad or for yourself?"

  "Nay, not for her," Elizabeth replied, putting down her own embroidery with a sigh. "I am happy for Portia, truly. Thomas Locke is a most excellent young man. He has fine prospects. He is now nearly done with his apprenticeship and shall soon become a journeyman tailor. Already, his work is becoming known in fashionable circles. He shall do well. There is no doubt that he shall make something of himself."

  "Despite his rather humble origins, you mean," Antonia said.

  "Well, though some may hold it so, in my estimation, what his father does should be no reflection upon him," Elizabeth replied. "Thomas is making his own way in life. And 'tis not at all uncommon these days for a successful merchant or a guildsman to become a gentleman. Prosperity can do much to improve one's social standing."

  “I am quite sure that Portia's father had considered that when he consented to the match," Antonia said dryly. "After all, 'tis one thing to allow one's only daughter to wed a tavern-keeper's son, and a tavern in the Liberties, no less. 'Tis quite another to let her wed a journeyman tailor who shall doubtless have his own shop before long and may one day become a gentleman."

  "Aye," said Elizabeth. "Some things are more easily overlooked when the prospects of success and social betterment are in the offing."

  "Unlike the prospects for a poor player who is not even a shareholder in his company?" Antonia said.

  Elizabeth glanced at her with surprise, momentarily taken aback, then smiled wanly. "Am I so easily compassed, then?"

  "Aye, by one who loves you well and knows your heart," Antonia replied, taking her hand. "Tuck Smythe is also an excellent young man. However, unlike Portia's young man, Thomas, he does not seem to have favourable prospects. He is also making his own way in life, as best he can, but as a poor player, I fear he can offer your father no reason to overlook his lack of social standing."

  Elizabeth sighed. "Did you know that his father is a gentleman?" Antonia's eyes grew wide. "Tuck's father? A gentleman? But you have never told me this!"

  "'Tis true," Elizabeth said, nodding. "He told me so himself once. But he does not like to speak of it."

  "But why?"

  "It seems that his father had squandered all of his money."

  Elizabeth explained. "'Twas my understanding that he had barely avoided debtors' prison and was living on his younger brother's charity. 'Tis why Tuck is both poor and a player. He told me that he had always wanted to join up with a company of players, ever since he was a boy and saw a travelling troupe come through his town, but his father would not hear of it and threatened to disown him if he did. And so Tuck was sent to live and apprentice with his uncle, who was a smith and farrier. H
e lived with him until he learned that his father had gone bankrupt. With his inheritance gone, his father's threat was rendered moot and Tuck had nothing to prevent him from setting out to follow his hearts desire. Thus, he came to London and became a player. He does not like to speak about his father. 'Twas the only time he had ever even mentioned him, and then he never spoke of him to me again."

  "Poor Tuck," Antonia said, shaking her head. "And yet… his father, for all that he may now be destitute, is nevertheless still a proper gentleman, is he not? That is to say, the heralds had granted him a coat of arms?"

  Elizabeth clucked her tongue. "Aye, they did, but I know what you are thinking, and 'twould never do," she said.

  "Why not?" Antonia asked "Your father wants nothing more than to make a good marriage for you. He has tried again and yet again to arrange a suitable match."

  "Aye, much to our mutual regret," Elizabeth replied. "I have told you of the disaster that was so narrowly prevented not so long ago, thanks to Tuck and his friend Will. I shudder to think now that I could easily have been killed by that impostor posing as a nobleman. As a result, it seems my father has learned his lesson and has at long last stopped trying to arrange a marriage for me.

  Besides, I told him that I would sooner die a spinster than wed a man I did not love."

  "But if you were to tell him that Tuck's father is a gentleman, then surely he would be more amiably disposed toward him," Antonia said.

  "Just so long as I conveniently neglected to tell him that Tuck's father is also destitute, you mean," Elizabeth replied. She shook her head. "'Nay, I could never do that to him. I could not mislead my father so, nor would Tuck stand for it even if I could. He is proud and honest to a fault. And for all of his insufferable pomposity, Father tolerates Tuck now, in part because he is indebted to him and in part because he knows now that Tuck is honourable and would never do anything against his wishes. Father trusts Tuck, as he trusts me. In truth, I do believe he trusts him more than he trusts me. 'Tis the only reason he allows our friendship, albeit he does not entirely approve."