The Lambs of London Page 6

  “Of course. Willingly. Gladly. And of course you may tell your brother.”

  THEY HAD WALKED as far as Catton Street, but they seemed reluctant to part. So Mary walked back with him down High Holborn. She had the strangest interest in him—as she put it to herself—but she was quite at a loss to explain the reasons for this. She sensed that he had no mother but, again, she could have given no explanation; it was his intensity, perhaps, that suggested some inner unease. She remarked later to her brother that he had “lonely eyes,” and Charles laughed at her sentimentality; but, for her, it was an exact description.

  “Lonely is not far from lovely,” he said.

  “Be serious, Charles.” There was some colour in her cheeks. “He needs protecting.”

  “From what?”

  “I am not sure. There seems to be some battle between himself and the world. He believes himself to be the injured party, and he will keep up the fight.”

  chapter five

  WHEN WILLIAM IRELAND returned to the bookshop, having left Mary Lamb at the corner of High Holborn and watched her disappear into the crowd, he found his father alone. Samuel Ireland was walking backwards and forwards, his patent-leather shoes rapping upon the wooden floor.

  “Mr. Malone sends his compliments. He had to leave for an appointment with his oculist.”

  “He was pleased, was he not?”

  “Delighted. Beyond measure.” He walked the length of the shop before turning to his son. “When do you next see your patron?”

  William had not related to him as much as he had told Mary Lamb; he had informed his father only that he had found the deed to a house in the library of an elderly lady who, in return, had given him permission to keep certain items which were of no interest to her. They were, as far as she was concerned, “mere paper.” He also described to him how he had sworn a solemn oath never to reveal her name. William knew his father to be excitable, grandiloquent and liable to spin extravagant schemes. It had been his father’s sudden impulse, for example, to bring in Edmond Malone.

  “I said that I would call upon her in a few days.”

  “A few days? Do you know what we have here?”

  “A seal.”

  “A mine. A mine of gold. Do you know the price at auction of such things?”

  “I have never considered it, Father.”

  “I presume your patron does not, either, or she would not put them at your disposal. Or shall I call her your benefactor?” If there was a tone of irony in his voice, William refused to notice it. “She is above such things, is she?”

  “They are simply a gift. As I told you, I found a deed to her late husband’s house—”

  “And they have no monetary worth for you?” Samuel Ireland resumed his pacing about the shop. It was clear to William that he was possessed by some strange energy, or vigour, which he did not try to conceal. “Let me ask you this, William. Do you have it within you to improve yourself? To succeed in this life?”

  It was a challenge, not a question. “I hope so. I presume so.”

  “Then you must seize your opportunity. I am convinced that there will be more Shakespearian papers. To find a deed and a seal in one place is beyond mere coincidence. You must seek them out, William.” He turned his back, in order to rearrange some books upon a shelf. “Your patron need not know. We can sell them privately.”

  William noticed a white hair on the back of his father’s jacket, and resisted the urge to brush it away. “They cannot be sold, Father.”

  “Cannot?”

  “I will not profit from her generosity.”

  His father made a visible effort to stand more upright. “You will not consider my opinions—my feelings—in this?”

  “Of course I will always be willing to listen to your advice, Father, but for me this is a principle.”

  “You are young to talk of principles.” His back was still turned. “Do you think your principles will gain you a better life?”

  “They will not get me a worse one.”

  “Do you wish to work in a shop for the rest of your life?” His father turned round, but he still did not look at him. He went over to the counter, and wiped it with the palm of his hand. “Have you no ambition beyond that of a tradesman?” William stayed silent, forcing his father to speak. “If I had possessed this benefactor, this patron, when I was starting in the world, I would have taken advantage of it.”

  “What advantage?”

  “To climb higher.”

  “And how would I achieve that, Father?”

  “By putting money in the bank.” He looked at his son for that moment. “Do you have any notion of what poverty is? I came into the world with empty pockets. I had to fight for my bread. I attended the free school in Monmouth Street. Well, I have told you about that.” William had indeed heard his father’s story before. “I begged and borrowed a few shillings to set up a stall in the street. I prospered very slowly, but I prospered. You know all this.”

  “I do.”

  “But do you know how to emulate it? Do you know how to begin?” Samuel Ireland climbed slowly up the staircase, pausing on one step as if he were short of breath.

  William waited until he had disappeared into the room above. Then he went over to the red seal of Shakespeare, took it in his hands, and began to weep.

  THREE DAYS AFTER THIS William came into the shop, whistling “Sweet Julie,” and ran upstairs to the dining-room. Rosa Ponting and his father were sitting by a sea-coal fire, drawing up a list of acquaintances to whom a Christmas posset might usefully and profitably be sent. “Cummings is too old,” Rosa was saying. “He will dribble it.”

  “I have a gift, Father.” From his breast pocket he took out a sheet of faded vellum. “A gift for all seasons.” Samuel Ireland rose quickly from his chair, and took the paper eagerly. “It is his testament.”

  “A testament, not a will?”

  “Without a doubt. Did you not tell me once that he died a papist?”

  Samuel Ireland went over to the table, and laid out the document. “There was a suspicion of it. Nothing more.”

  THEY HAD DISCUSSED the matter during their recent visit to Stratford. After they had left the birthplace, where they had drunk tea with Mr. Hart, they had walked down Henley Street in the direction of the river. They were considering the will of John Shakespeare which had been concealed behind a rafter, and were speculating whether the son had followed the religious convictions of the father. Samuel Ireland had a jewel-topped cane, which he prodded on the ground for emphasis. “There was a play on the papist Thomas More, which was supposed to be Shakespeare’s. But it was a bastard issue.”

  “A bastard issue? What is that, Father?”

  They looked at each other for a moment, and Samuel banged his cane upon a cobble. “It is a nothing. A mere term. It means that it is not part of the canon.”

  William stared ahead, and did not even notice a small herd of piglets being driven down Henley Street. “But it is an interesting expression. Bastard issue.”

  “These phrases can be used too freely, William. Scholarship is not exact. Do you see those little creatures?”

  “So the scholars may be wrong?”

  “They give too much thought to sources. To origins. Instead of studying the wonderful sublimity of the bard’s verses, they hunt for the originals Shakespeare may have copied. It is false learning.”

  “There are some who say that Shakespeare copied everything.”

  “That is exactly the conjecture I mean. It is absurd. It is nonsensical. He was a divine original.”

  “That is to say, without origins?”

  “Shall we say, William, that origins are of no consequence?”

  “I am glad to hear it.” His father looked at him sharply for a moment. “Shakespeare stands alone.”

  SAMUEL IRELAND WAS still studying the parchment laid out on the dining-room table.

  “The testament proves that he was not a papist, Father. Can you make out the words?”
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  “There is something here commending his soul to Jesus.” “There is no Mary. There are no saints. No superstition. No bigotry.”

  Samuel Ireland wiped his eyes, with what seemed to be a nervous gesture. “There is no mistake, William?”

  “Look at the signature, Father. It is identical with that upon the deed.”

  Rosa Ponting was still examining the list for the Christmas posset. “It is a waste of your time, Sammy. If your son will not sell these things, what is the use of them?”

  ON A COLD evening in the following week Samuel and William Ireland were invited into the library of Church House beside St. Mildred’s, Fetter Lane. Here they were greeted by Doctor Parr and Doctor Warburton, both of them identically dressed in clerical black with white stocks, white wristbands and dusted grey periwigs.

  “Delighted,” said Doctor Parr.

  “Immeasurably,” said Doctor Warburton.

  They both bowed very gracefully.

  “Mr. Malone has written to the Archbishop.”

  “The Archbishop is overjoyed.”

  William was so intrigued by these two elderly clerics that he felt obliged to look away for a moment. He concentrated upon a print of Abraham and Isaac, surrounded by a heavy black frame.

  “To know that our foremost poet has been freed of all suspicion of papistry. It is a great joy.”

  William noticed, also, that both divines smelled of bruised oranges.

  “Will you join us in an amontillado?” Doctor Parr asked them.

  “The driest of the dry.”

  Doctor Warburton rang a small bell and a black boy—dressed in black, also, with white wristbands and a grey periwig—brought in a silver tray with four glasses and a decanter. Doctor Parr poured the sherry and proposed a toast to the “divine bard.”

  Samuel Ireland then took from his carrying-case the document that William had brought back in triumph the week before. “Can you read the Secretary hand, sir?”

  “I have known it all my life.”

  “Then this will cause you no difficulty.”

  Doctor Parr took the vellum from him and handed it to his colleague. Doctor Warburton, putting on his spectacles in a ritual he clearly enjoyed, began to read aloud. “‘Forgive us, oh Lord, all our sins and cherish us like the sweet bird that under the cover of her spreading wings receives her little brood and hovering over them keeps them’—what is this word?”

  He passed the paper to Doctor Parr. “‘Harmless,’ Warburton.”

  “‘—who keeps them harmless and in safety. Keep in safety, too, your sovereign James divinely appointed.’ This is excellent, Parr. He subscribed to our English Church. Note the image of the bird.”

  William walked over to a window and looked down into Fetter Lane. There was a plaque on the wall there, beneath the elm tree, which read “This Is Where the Great Fire of London Was Halted.” Hanging in this library, between the window and the shelves, was a tapestry depicting “Jesus among the Doctors in the Temple”; there were some threads unravelled loosely from it and, on an impulse, he plucked them out and put them in his pocket. When he turned round he realised that the black servant had been observing him; the boy was shaking his head and smiling at him. Since the others were deeply intent upon examining Shakespeare’s testament, William walked over to him. “A memento,” he said. “A memory of this place.”

  The boy’s eyes were large and tremulous. It was as if he were looking at William from under water. “That is no concern of mine, sir.”

  William was astonished at the purity of his diction. The boy might have been an Englishman. William’s only previous contact with a Negro had been the crossing-sweeper by London Stone, who scarcely seemed able to speak at all. “How long have you worked here?”

  “Since I was a very small child, sir. I was brought across the ocean and redeemed here.” William did not quite know what the boy meant by “redeemed” but it had some connotation of debt or purchase. And yet it might have meant that he had been baptised.

  JOSEPH ’S MOTHER , ALICE , had taken him aboard a ship sailing from the Barbadoes with a cargo of sugar cane; Alice had recently become the captain’s mistress, and had pleaded for her small son to join them on the journey to England. Joseph was then six years old. On their arrival at the Port of London the captain took mother and son to the Evangelical Mission for Seamen, on Wapping High Street, and ordered them to wait there for his return. They sat upon the steps all night. The following morning Alice told Joseph to wait there for the captain while she went in search of food. She never returned. Or, rather, she had not returned seven hours later when Hannah Carlyle had found the young black boy curled up against the door of the Mission. “Goodness me,” she asked no one in particular, “what is it?” He knew only the Bajan patois of his country, and she did not understand what he answered. “Bless you for your heathen tongue,” she said. “Your skin is black, but your soul is white. You have been sent here for a purpose.”

  The boy’s colour caused little remark among the illegitimate white children of this neighbourhood, sailors’ children who ran wild through the riverside alleys and warehouses of the docks. This was a strange world where it seemed to Joseph that the sea entered London. The wind was like a sea-wind, and the birds were sea-birds. The ropes, and masts, and barrels, and planks, gave him the impression of a ship upon land.

  Yet Joseph was eventually taken out of Wapping by Hannah Carlyle, who gave him to her cousin who was the housekeeper of Church House in Fetter Lane. So he was brought up in the company of Doctor Parr and Doctor Warburton; they taught him English, and he acquired from them the slightly old-fashioned diction that had surprised William Ireland. The divines also took turns in entering his bed. Doctor Parr would suck his member and masturbate himself, whereas Doctor Warburton would simply fondle him before returning with a sigh to his own room.

  IT MAY INTEREST YOU to know, sir, that my name is Shakespeare. Joseph Shakespeare.”

  William could not help smiling. “How is that possible?”

  “It was a name given to the unfortunate slaves, sir. It was a jest.”

  Doctor Parr was reading aloud another part of the testament. “‘Our poor weak thoughts are elevated to their summit and then, as snow from the leafless trees, drop and distil themselves till they are no more.’” He wiped his lips with a white handkerchief tucked beneath his wristband. “This should be read out from every pulpit in England.”

  William walked over to them and, on the pretence of asking for the time, whispered in his father’s ear. “This will not be considered a bastard issue.”

  “We have very fine passages in our church service,” Warburton was saying. “And our litany abounds with beauties. But here is a man who has distanced us all. Genuine feeling breathes through the whole composition.”

  “Is it in the style of Shakespeare?” William asked him.

  “There can be no doubt about it. This must become known to the world.”

  “I am intending to write an essay for the Gentleman’s Magazine,” Samuel replied.

  His son looked at him in astonishment.

  There was time for more sherry, and a further toast to “the bard” before Doctor Parr and Doctor Warburton took their visitors to the front door of Church House. “It has been a privilege,” Parr said, “to touch the paper upon which Shakespeare wrote.”

  “It has been an honour, Mr. Ireland.” Warburton looked down the Lane as if he were expecting an invading army. “A solemn joy.”

  As they crossed Fetter Lane, William grabbed his father’s arm. “I did not know you were writing an essay.”

  “And why not?”

  “You should have informed me, Father.”

  “A father to ask permission from his son? Is that what you are saying?”

  “You should have consulted me.”

  “Consult? What is there to consult about? As the good Warburton has said, the news must be given to the world.”

  In truth William had intended to compose his
own article on the subject. From the day he had shown the first signature to his father, he had nurtured the ambition of writing biographical essays on Shakespeare. Shakespeare would be his key to publication. “There may be others, Father, who can write.”

  “There are no others acquainted with the subject as we are. Oh. Surely you don’t mean yourself?”

  William blushed. “I have as good a claim as you.”

  “You are a youth, William. You have no powers of composition.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Sensus communis. Common sense. I know you.”

  William was suddenly becoming very angry. “You could not have said that to the young Milton. Or to Pope. Chatterton was my age when he died.”

  “Milton and Pope were possessed by great genius. Surely you do not believe that you—”

  “Well. I have inherited none. That is obvious enough.”

  They did not speak for the rest of the evening.

  IN FACT SAMUEL IRELAND had already written to the editor of the Gentleman’s Magazine, Philip Dawson, the week before.

  Dawson was a shrewd man of business, quiet and steady, but when he received Ireland’s letter he had put his head back and whistled. “This is a discovery,” he said. “My word.”

  He went over to a cabinet and took out a bottle of soda. He drank only soda so that, as he always said, his mind would remain clear and transparent. He was known to his acquaintances as “Soda,” and even signed his more familiar letters with that name. He had simply signed himself “Dawson,” however, in his response to Samuel Ireland. He had asked him to call.

  AS SAMUEL IRELAND approached the offices of the Gentleman’s Magazine, in St. John’s Gate at Clerkenwell, he felt for a moment his son’s discontent. As soon as William had brought the first papers to him, Samuel had immediately seen the profit in them. There were scholars and collectors who would pay more than a modest sum for any signature or deed. The fact that William refused to sell them was of no great consequence; Samuel was sure that, over weeks or months, he could persuade him otherwise. No son of his could dismiss the prospect of financial gain. What concerned him most, as he walked towards St. John’s Gate, was the seriousness of his task. He was about to reveal to the English public a number of hitherto unseen and unknown Shakespearian articles. Samuel Ireland would then become the object of controversy. He was already wondering how he would be described—as a bookseller, a tradesman, a shop-owner? And how was it best to conduct himself in the company of scholars and men of letters?