The Lambs of London (8 page)

He was wary of her now. He had never before witnessed these sudden changes of mood. It was best to placate her. “Forgive me, dear. It is late. He is no Shakespeare, but he may prove to be another Lamb. I will assist him in any way possible.”

“Can he visit us, Charles, and explain what he intends to write? I would be so glad.”

“Of course. Let him come at his own convenience.”

A
SHORT NOTE FROM
Mary to William brought him to Laystall Street on the following Sunday morning. He seemed nervous in Charles’s company, and he looked to Mary for reassurance as he read out the Shakespearian verses.

“They are very elegant,” Charles said.

“Exactly so. Elegant.” He seized upon the word. “Can I read you, Mr. Lamb, what I have started to write?” They were sitting in the drawing-room, and Mary noticed the myriad particles of dust floating and spinning in the rays of the spring sunshine. William took from his pocket a sheaf of papers. “I have neglected the opening. May I plunge
in medias res
?”

“By all means.”

So William Ireland began to read. “‘Another excellence of Shakespeare, one in which no other writer equalled him, lay in the language of nature. So correct was it that we can see ourselves in all he wrote; his style and manner have also the felicity, that not a sentence can be read without its being discovered to be Shakespearian.’”

Charles Lamb listened with attention, and was indeed surprised by Ireland’s vigour. The young man described the nature of the poem he had discovered, discussed its analogies with known and recognised passages from the rest of Shakespeare’s poetry, and then concluded with a flourish. “‘We shall then, after allowing to Shakespeare all the higher qualities that demand our admiration, be compelled from this example to concede to him Milton’s title of “our sweetest bard.” ’”

Mary clapped her hands together.

Charles had expected the awkward language of the novice, but instead he had listened to an accomplished piece of writing. “I am very impressed,” he said. “I hardly—”

“Believed me capable of it?”

“I am not so sure of that. But it is very fluent.”

“Nonsense, Charles. At William’s age, Milton was already writing odes.”

“Oh, I have written odes!” Ireland checked himself. “I owe it in part to you, Mr. Lamb. I admire your essays in
Westminster Words.
I would not dare to say that I have caught your style, but I was inspired by them.”

“That is a great compliment, Charles. Thank William for it.”

Charles held out his hand, and William grasped it with a friendly flourish. “So do you think, sir, that it can be submitted?”

“Of course. And I am sure that it will be accepted by Mr. Law. May the poem be quoted in full?”

“There would be no point otherwise.”

Mary sat down beside Charles upon the divan, and put her arm round him. “This is a sunny day in all our lives,” she said.

Her use of the odd phrase prompted Charles to look at her. Her expression was serene, rapt almost, and she was gazing at William with peculiar fervour.

I
T WAS THIS IMAGE
that he contemplated in the Billiter Inn, in the company of Tom Coates and Benjamin Milton. He was now more than ever concerned for Mary’s health, since in the last few days she had developed a cough that left her weak and out of breath. She had become fevered, too—her eyes bright, her face hot and dry. He explained it to himself as the impending change of season.

Three jars of “Stingo” had been laid before them.

“What ho, Watteau!” Tom Coates raised his jar, and chinked it against that of Benjamin Milton.

“Your very best, gentlemen.” Charles raised his own jar. “Now tell me this. How are we to while away the lagging time?”

“We can talk.”

“No. Not here. Not now. I am referring to the idle months of summer. The dog days. The days of wine and roses, as Horace puts it.”

“You have it. Drink wine and eat roses. Breathe forth the perfumed breath of Araby.”

“We could hire a balloon.”

“We could make Wedgwood plates.” Tom and Benjamin were determined to outdo one another.

“We could fart inflammable gas.”

“We could play with puppets.”

“We scarcely need puppets.” Charles glimpsed the outline of a scheme. “Do you recall last year, when the Internal Bond Office performed
Every Man In His Humour
? It was a great success. They charged at the door.”

“And drank the proceeds. The money turned into liquor.”

“No. The money went to the City Orphans. I remember the letter sent to them by Sir Alfred Lunn.” He took a large draught of “Stingo.” “This is my plan. We will put on theatricals.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Tom Coates was incredulous.

“God.”

“Charles, I cannot walk on stage with a wig and a false beard. It is simply not possible.” Benjamin Milton smoothed back his hair. “I would look ridiculous. Besides, I cannot act.”

“That is a problem, Ben, I grant you.” Charles was still elated by his conception. “But, you know, we could use it to our advantage.”

“How so?”

“The answer is coming to me. Wait a little.” He gazed at the ceiling, as if expecting some small fairy to appear on the edge of its moulding. “Well, I have it. Why did I not think of this before?”

“When have you ever thought of anything before?”

“Pyramus and Thisbe. And the wall.”

“Explain, dearest.”

“The mechanicals in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Quince. Bottom.” He looked at Benjamin. “You will make a very good Snout. The mechanicals are the essence of bad acting. We will perform their play. It will be fantastical.”

“This is certainly a fantasy.” Benjamin was rubbing his nose. “No doubt about that.”

“Don’t you see the mirth of it?” Charles was enamoured of amateur theatricals. He often attended the penny-gaffs and the dramas played in the houses of friends; in the past he had taken on the roles of Volpone and of Bluebeard.

“I see the fun in it,” Tom replied. “But how can we execute it? We cannot act.”

“Haven’t you been listening?” Charles asked him.

“Probably not.”

“This is the point, dear Tom. Neither could Quince or Bottom.”

“But they are characters. We are real. Aren’t we?”

“What does it signify, Ben? The words are the same, are they not? We can call in Siegfried and Selwyn.” Siegfried Drinkwater and Selwyn Onions were also clerks in the Dividend Office. “They would be perfect Athenians. We can perform it in the Transaction Hall. On midsummer night, don’t you think?”

Tom Coates and Benjamin Milton looked at each other solemnly, and then burst out laughing.

chapter seven

O
N THE STROKE OF
noon William Ireland walked into Paternoster Row; he knew that this was the hour when that week’s issues of
Westminster Words
would be presented to the bookshops and booksellers of the street. They were bound up in brown paper and string, and delivered by the editor himself from the depths of a hired cabriolet. William had witnessed this the week before, and the week before that, as he waited impatiently to see if his article on Shakespeare’s lost poem had been published. He knew the bookshops of the neighbourhood very well and, as soon as the cab had passed, he asked for a copy of the periodical from Mr. Love of Love Volumes.

“A slow time for the trade, Mr. Ireland, don’t you agree?”

“Every time is a slow time, Mr. Love.”

“Well. Never mind it.” He was a gaunt man, with white and wispy hair, who had a habit of looking sideways at anyone to whom he talked. “This weather is too warm for me, Mr. Ireland. They don’t like it neither.” He gestured towards his books. “They like it mild. Well. Never mind it. How’s your father?”

William bought
Westminster Words,
and hurried down the Row. He was looking for a secluded spot where he might inspect his copy. He ducked behind a pile of barrels, carefully arranged in a pyramid by the drayman, and opened the periodical. It was the first essay. “An Unknown Poem by William Shakespeare” was set up in 12-point roman type, and was followed: “By W. H. Ireland.” It was his own name in print. He had never before seen it in that guise and it seemed strangely remote, as if he had always harboured some secret identity that had only now been revealed. He read the first words, so much more serene and significant in this typeface, as if he were reading them for the first time. It was a moment that he had often anticipated, and so it came to him with a sharper pleasure.

It has been concluded heretofore that no further example of William Shakespeare’s writing would ever be discovered, and that nothing more would be added to the store of dramatic poetry known to the world. In this, as in so many other matters Shakespearian, the common opinion has proved to be mistaken…

E
DMOND MALONE WAS
reading this in a compartment of Parker’s Coffee-House off Chancery Lane; he leant back against the oak panels with an expression of surprise, took off his spectacles, and immediately called for his reckoning. He put on his hat and, with
Westminster Words
tucked neatly under his arm, he walked briskly into the street. Within a few minutes he had reached Ireland’s bookshop. The bell upon the door alerted Samuel Ireland himself, who had been on his knees beneath the counter examining the faeces of a mouse.

“Good afternoon to you, Mr. Malone. Is it the afternoon?”

“It is. What does this mean?” He laid down a copy of the periodical upon the counter.

Samuel Ireland opened it and peered at the first article. He picked it up and held it close to his face, reading it carefully as his breath became shorter and more laboured. “I have not the least conception—” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose very loudly. “I was not told—” He blew his nose again. “This is a wholly unwelcome surprise.”

“Well, sir, where is it?”

“It?”

“The poem that your son has so lavishly described. The manuscript. I must see it, Mr. Ireland.”

“I have not the least idea where it may be, Mr. Malone. William has not seen fit—” His anger was growing as he spoke. “My son has not had the courtesy to tell me anything of this. He has deliberately concealed it from me. He has played false.”

“This poem does not belong to your son. It belongs to the world.”

“I know it, Mr. Malone.”

At this moment William Ireland walked into the bookshop. He was still elated by the sight of his name in
Westminster Words,
and greeted their hostile expressions with equanimity. He saw the periodical on the counter. “You have read it, Father?”

“What is the meaning of it?”

“If you have read it, then you must know. Good afternoon, Mr. Malone.”

“I ask you again, what is the meaning of it?”

“I will tell you the meaning. I have done what you told me I never could do. I have written an essay. And it has been published.”

“How could you conceal such a thing from me?”

“You would have taken it, Father. You would have assumed that I had no great skill in composition. Now I have proved you to be wrong. That is all.”

Samuel Ireland glared at his son, but said nothing.

Edmond Malone had, in the meanwhile, become impatient. “This has nothing to do with father or with son. Where is the poem?” He turned to William. “It was very rash and hasty of you, sir, to leap into print before you were sure of your ground. How do you know it to be genuine?”

“I am sure of its provenance.”

“Oh yes? Authenticity is proved on instinct, I suppose. Scholars have no place in this court.”

“The beggar is becoming proud,” his father said.

William looked at both of them, and smiled. “Wait a moment, Mr. Malone, if you will.” He rushed upstairs and a few moments later came back with a large envelope. “I resign this to your care and custody, Mr. Malone. Subject it to whatever scrutiny you wish. If you have any doubt that it is Shakespeare’s, proclaim that doubt from the rooftops.”

Malone took the envelope eagerly, and extracted the manuscript. “You state in your essay, sir, that these are love rhymes.”

“Read for yourself.”

“I have had that pleasure. In
Westminster Words.
” Yet he read it over again. “I am glad to find no indelicacies here. It had been my fear—”

“Indelicacies?”

“Shakespeare was steeped in bawdy. We live in dread that something will be found out. So much ribaldry defaces his poetry.”

“This is very pure, I assure you. I must have your word, Mr. Malone, that you will return it within the month.”

“It will be back in your possession sooner than that, Mr. Ireland. On my word of honour it will not be harmed or damaged in any way.”

“We must make out a receipt.” Samuel Ireland was suddenly in motion, searching behind the counter for ink and paper.

“My father is of a nervous disposition, you see, in matters of this kind.”

“It is a precious thing, William. It is not a trifle.”

The short declaration was duly signed, and Edmond Malone left Holborn Passage clutching the envelope to his chest.

S
AMUEL IRELAND CAME BACK
from the door, having waved a farewell. “You should not have given him the document, William.”

“Why ever not?”

“Consider its value. You might as well have given him a bag of guineas.”

“Mr. Malone is honourable, is he not?”

“Honour can be bought and sold.” He seemed to regret what he had said. He picked up the copy of
Westminster Words,
and without saying anything read his son’s essay. After he had finished it, he handed it to William. “Why did you not inform me of this poem? Why did I have to read of it in a journal?”

“I have told you why. It was my wish.”

“Your
wish
? Do you acknowledge no duty towards your own father?”

“Of course. As far as nature allows. You informed me that I could not write. You told me, in so many words, that I was fit only to be a shop assistant.”

“That was not what I meant at all—”

“Tell me this, Father. Do you not owe a duty to your son? You might have encouraged me.”

“This is not the time—”

“There never has been a time. You might have nurtured in me some appetite for learning. Instead I have had to educate myself.”

“Just as I did. The best education—”

“—is self-administered. I have heard you say that often. Well. You have read the article. Consider if I have not educated myself properly.”

They continued the argument upstairs, after supper. Rosa Ponting had left the room, professing no interest in the subject of “them dratted papers,” but in fact she put her ear to the door after she had closed it. She could hear Samuel Ireland chinking his glass against his plate in evident annoyance. “Mr. Malone has no rights in this matter. These papers are jewels. You cannot hand them to anyone you please.”

“Is that why you claim them for yourself? Is that why you hawk them around like so many articles for pawn? I found them. I own them. They have nothing whatever to do with Samuel Ireland.”

“That is not fair, William. That is not just. If you were not known to work in my establishment, your patron would not have given you a second glance.”

“That is not so.”

“Let me finish. You are known to the world as my son. My reputation, as much as yours, is at the stake.”

“Well, then, quit yourself of any responsibility. Sign a document denying any interest in the matter. I am sure that Rosa will willingly witness any disclaimer.”

“Why are you saying this to me? The ties that bind a father and a son are sacred.”

“What is mine is yours?”

“That has nothing to do with it. That is low.” Samuel Ireland rose from the table, breathing heavily. “You may need my help. My advice. Who knows what else you may discover.”

“Such as a love-letter to Anne Hathaway?”

“I beg your pardon?” He sat down again quickly.

“Not a letter, precisely. But a note. A billet-doux. I could not allow Mr. Malone to take everything.”

Samuel Ireland laughed out loud. “Admirable, William. You have the advantage of me. Bring it out. Let me see it.”

William took it from his leather pocket-book. It was a slip of paper, to which a lock of hair had been tied with a thin thread. He had protected the object with a wrapping of fine tissue-cloth and, when he placed it on the dining-table, his father carefully unwound it.

Samuel Ireland was able to read the inscription on the paper. “‘
I do assure thee no rude hand hath knotted this. Thy Will alone hath done the work. He hath a way. Neither the gilded bauble
’—something—something. Excuse me. I am overcome.” The hair itself was of a reddish tinge, curling at one end. He was afraid to touch it. “Is that,” he asked, “the genuine thing?
The
hair?”

“Why should it not be? The hair of Edward the Fourth, when he was taken from the grave, was still strong and highly coloured. He died in 1483.”

“Was this found among the other papers? In the house of your benefactor?”

“Of course. Where else? That house will one day become a shrine to all true lovers of Shakespeare.”

“
If
anyone can find it.” On the mention of a love-letter, Rosa Ponting had come back into the room. “Lord, William, you make such a mystery of everything. It is aggravating. Truly it is. Will you still not tell your father where this person lives?”

“Shall I tell you, Rosa, how she put it to me?”

“Go on. I like a story.”

“She does not think it fit to subject herself to the impertinent questions of any individual. Her husband is lately dead, and left no explanation concerning the papers he collected. She has no more to say and, as a gentlewoman, she does not wish to go before the public.”

Rosa sniffed, and began to clear away the plates.

Samuel Ireland refilled his glass. “That is very proper of her, I am sure,” he said. “But there will be questions.”

“Which I shall answer.”

“Her husband must have been a most remarkable collector.”

“Certainly. No snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. I am close, Father, to coming to a conclusion about that. There is no mention of books or papers in Shakespeare’s will.”

“I know it.”

“We can assume that his effects were left to his daughter, Susannah, together with his house and land.”

“She married Doctor Hall.”

“Precisely. They in turn bequeathed everything to their only child, Elizabeth, who was still living in Stratford.”

Rosa Ponting came back into the room. “You will tell us where
her
house is, I suppose.”

“That house was taken over by Cromwell’s soldiers during the parliamentary wars. We know that. The papers are never mentioned again.”

“So you believe that the soldiers took them? Or used them for lighting their blunderbusses?”

“Not exactly, no. There were antiquaries among the parliamentarians. Once one of them learned that the soldiers had occupied Shakespeare’s old house, it was easy. A word with the commander of the local forces and then—”

“He is granted access. Who could possibly care what happened to the scribblings of a dramatist? One of the devil’s party?”

“Quite so, Father. But they are preserved. They are a private treasure, not to be vouchsafed to the world. They are passed down. And then they are tracked down by my patron’s husband.”

“What finer purchase could there be? I wonder how much?” Samuel Ireland went to the small window overlooking Holborn Passage, and gazed down upon the cobbles.

Rosa Ponting was comfortable in an armchair, surveying her needlework. “Well, Sammy, you told me they can only rise in value. Nice for some.”

W
ITHIN A WEEK
Edmond Malone had returned the Shakespearian fragment; he pronounced it to be genuine, beyond any possibility of serious doubt, and made a point of presenting it to William rather than to Samuel Ireland. “I must congratulate you, sir, on your assiduity. We are all indebted.”

“And the verse itself?”

“It embodies the sublime genius of the poet. Shakespeare sometimes mingles his effects. It is said that too much farce is mixed with his tragical matter. He puts fools by gravesides and mingles kings with clowns.”

“Is there a difference?”

Malone ignored the question. “But this is purity itself.”

William’s delight was evident; he shook Malone’s hand, and then rushed upstairs saying, “I have something else for you to consider.” He brought back with him the short love-letter and the lock of hair. “Touch the hair, Mr. Malone.”

The scholar would not. He put up his hands, as if in self-defence. He had quickly read the inscription, and understood its significance. “It is too close to him. In my imagination it is warm and palpable.”