The Lambs of London (15 page)

William stopped and addressed him. “Who are you, sir?”

“A lover of Shakespeare, sir.”

“And you do not love this play?”

“Oh no. Fraudulent, sir. A fakery.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have a friend in the theatre who showed it to me.” William suspected that the man himself was an out-of-work actor. “It never has the genuine note.”

“I disagree with you. I have just seen it. I assure you it is real.”

“Ah, sir, it may be real and yet unreal. Do you understand me?”

He rushed upon another group before William could ask him what he meant. So William walked towards Covent Garden, clutching the handbill, until he caught a glimpse of the Lambs a few yards in front of him. Mary Lamb was walking arm in arm with her father, talking intently to him. William did not wish to be noticed, so he held back until they had entered the cobbled space of the market itself. Then he saw Mary walking quickly away, towards that part of the arcade where the potters kept their stalls, with Charles following her. Had there been some disagreement between them?

He turned away and walked back towards Holborn. That night, he slept profoundly and awoke the next morning much later than his usual hour.

chapter twelve

T
HOMAS DE QUINCEY
also possessed a copy of the handbill that had been distributed outside the Drury Lane Theatre. He had been given it, as a memento of that night, by Charles Lamb. De Quincey and Lamb were now very friendly; they had become drinking companions, and Charles had assisted him in finding a junior clerk’s post at South Sea House in Threadneedle Street. De Quincey had a good hand, having attended the grammar school in Manchester, and was surprisingly numerate. They met on many evenings, after work, in the Billiter Inn. It was here that Charles showed him the handbill, five nights after the first performance of
Vortigern.

“Our friend is accused of ‘rank forgery,’” he said with a certain relish.

“Is he so?”

“But Ireland could not have written so much. He could not have written so fluently. It was excellent poetry in parts. You were there.” He touched de Quincey’s arm. “I have a theory. I believe this play to have been written by some contemporary of Shakespeare’s. Some minor poet, perhaps. Ireland is so seduced by the name of Shakespeare that he attaches it to every item he has found.”

“I think more highly of him than you do.”

“It is the work of Shakespeare?”

“On the contrary. It is the work of Ireland.”

“That cannot be. How could he fool the world?”

“London, at least. He is far more clever than you imagine, Charles. When I hear him talk I am always aware of his incisive nature. He is very sharp.”

“But to write a sixteenth-century play—and poetry. Surely not?”

“Chatterton accomplished as much. And he was even younger. It is not impossible.”

“Improbable. Highly improbable.”

“He can write. You have seen his essays. Mr. Ireland may be deeper than you suppose.”

“I must tell Mary your theory.”

“Oh no.” De Quincey was very emphatic. “On no account tell Mary.”

“I know what you are about to say.”

“Listen to me all the same. She is too—too fragile at the moment.” De Quincey sought the right phrase. “It might break her.”

“Break her heart, do you mean? Nonsense.”

“Really, Charles, sometimes you do not see what is under your nose.”

“I cannot see what is not there.”

“Mary is there. Can you not see that she is pining for him? Her illness? Her nervousness? William Ireland has deeply unsettled her. And he has no intention of doing anything about it.”

If Charles was surprised by de Quincey’s description, he did not show it. Mary’s fits of temper, and her evident unease, had become more pronounced in recent weeks. But Charles had explained this to himself as the strain of their father’s advancing senility. He knew that she was protective of Ireland—and even regarded him with affection—but secretly to love him? “So she is Ophelia,” he said. “Wasting.”

“Why must you see everything as drama, Charles? Mary is not a character in a play. She is suffering.” He was silent for a moment. “Ireland forges his feelings as he forges words.”

“And that is why I cannot explain your theory to her.”

“Better if you did not.”

D
E QUINCEY WALKED
back from the Billiter Inn to his lodging in Berners Street. He had taken a room close to the abandoned house where he had first lived, because he had not lost hope of finding Anne in the crowded streets of that neighbourhood. Once he thought he saw her, sitting by the corner of Newman Street, but when he hurried to that spot there was no one there. He imagined her consumed in sorrow and in loneliness; he imagined her walking into the Thames; he imagined her abused and beaten. Oh for a muse of fire—to cast a light into London’s darkness! These were the words that came to him when, suddenly, he glimpsed William Ireland entering the stationer’s shop at the bottom of Berners Street. The hour was late but Ireland had opened the door without knocking; de Quincey passed the shop-front very quickly and stole a glance through the bay window on the ground floor. The elderly man behind the counter was handing Ireland a parcel. That was all he had time to witness.

He walked on, and entered the house where he lodged. Despite his warnings to Charles, de Quincey remained on friendly terms with Ireland. In certain respects he even admired him. He considered him to be a fine actor, whose stage was the world, but he was the first to admit that he did not properly understand him.

He was about to enter his room when there was a knock on the front door. Ireland was on the doorstep, clutching the parcel wrapped in rough brown paper. “I saw you passing,” he said. “You did not notice me.”

“Where were you?”

“In Askew’s. He gives me the Zurich catalogue. Charming old fellow.”

“Come in, sir playwright. I have a bottle that desires your company.” De Quincey’s room was on the ground floor, looking on to Berners Street itself.

“I am not the playwright, Tom. I am the medium.”

“I know it. You are what mathematicians call the middle term, without which there can be no lower or upper.”

“And the play is the upper term?”

“So long as Shakespeare is not the lower. Mind the rent in the carpet.”

De Quincey’s room was bare of ornament; there was a bed, and many books piled on the carpet, but very little else. The traffic of London passed by the window, and the continuous low sound of the city could clearly be heard.

“I have often wondered where you lodged,” Ireland said.

“I like it here.” De Quincey was very jaunty. “I feel myself to be a Londoner. Let me open that bottle.”

“I have lived in the city all my life. There are some spots that I love. But I have no real passion for it.”

“Why ever not? It has made you.”

“And may yet break me.” William went over to the window, and looked out at the crossing-sweeper who worked the entire street. “The play closes tonight.”

“
Vortigern
?”

“Six nights. I thought it would go on—”

“Surely not?”

Ireland turned round. “What do you mean?”

De Quincey was momentarily at a loss. “Shakespeare is an acquired taste. He is not for a modern audience.”

“Yet we have had our defenders. I cut this from the
Evening Gazette
.” He took a paper out of his pocket, and read from it aloud.

“From deep oblivion snatched, this play appears.

It claims respect, since Shakespeare’s name it bears.

That name, the source of wonder and delight,

To a fair hearing has at least a right.”

De Quincey laughed. “A very lamentable set of verses.”

“I agree. I could have written better myself.” Ireland looked carefully at him. “But the sentiment is just.”

“Of course.”

Ireland seemed reassured. “I will tell you something, Tom, that few others know. I can trust your silence.” De Quincey gave the briefest nod. “Among the vast stock of papers, given to me by my patron, I have found another Henry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Henry II
. Is that not extraordinary?”

De Quincey went over to a walnut box beside his bed, and took out a bottle of Maconochie port. There was a pitcher and wash-stand on the other side of his bed; he crossed over and took out two glasses from the cabinet at its base. He noticed for the first time that the enamel on the side of the basin had chipped and darkened. “Have you shown it to anyone?”

“My father has seen it. He has passed the sheets to Mr. Malone, who has already identified it as the work of the bard.”

“Has anyone else read the manuscript?”

“No one else. Not yet. We are waiting for the propitious time. When the true worth of
Vortigern
is realised. Shall we have a toast?”

De Quincey poured out the port, and they raised their glasses.

“To Henry,” Ireland said.

“To Henry. May the best man win.”

“What is that?”

“A phrase. Nothing.”

“My father wished to see it published. But I have counselled him to wait. Coming so soon after
Vortigern
—”

“It would seem too fortuitous?”

“Precisely. There is a line in
Pericles
about a great sea of joys rushing upon him.”

“‘
O’erbear the shores of my mortality
.’ Is that right? ‘
And drown me with their sweetness
.’”

“You know it. But there are some who say that
Pericles
is not by Shakespeare.”

“Some will say anything.”

“That is my dilemma.” Ireland finished his port quickly. “May I?” He sat down upon the edge of the bed. “The press of visitors has become so great,” he said after de Quincey had filled his glass, “that my father has printed cards of admission. Our little museum has become a shrine, as he predicted. Did I tell you? The Prince of Wales appeared one morning.”

“No!”

“All dressed up in powder-blue silk. Old Corruption himself. Some addle-headed courtier rushed in, telling us to prepare ourselves. What were we supposed to do? Put on court costume? Then his fat Highness waddled in. My father bowed so low that you could see up his—” Ireland broke into laughter. “I will not say.”

“But what did the prince do?”

“He called for the papers, sat himself down on a chair that the courtier found for him, and then—in his word—‘perused’ them for a minute or two. The shop was filled with the stink of his cologne-water.”

“And what did he say of them?”

“I will give you his precise words.” Although de Quincey did not know it, Ireland imitated the voice and the manner of the Prince of Wales exactly. “‘These documents bear a strong semblance of age. But to decide peremptorily, from this cursory inspection, would be unjustifiable.’ And then my father replies thus. ‘Of course it would. Unthinkable, gracious sir.’”

“And then?”

“‘I trust,’ his Fatness says, ‘I trust the English nation will experience that gratification which is expected to be derived from them.’”

“What did that mean?”

“God knows. My father told me later that royalty can venture no opinion. I begged to differ, citing the American wars.”

“Did he stay long?”

“Not at all. He got up to leave and my father fluttered around him. Gracious sir. Privilege not dreamed of. Ardent zeal. And so forth. As soon as he had left, my father kissed the chair, and vowed that no one would ever sit in it again.”

“But you were not so impressed.”

“Impressed? With that charlatan? I would prefer to bow to this crossing-sweep. He has more natural dignity.”

“And he has employment.”

“Precisely.” William put down his glass, and picked up the parcel he had brought with him from Askew’s. “I must get back. I do not trust the streets between here and Holborn.”

H
IS FATHER WAS WAITING
for his return. He was standing behind the counter, and William knew at once that he was ill at ease.

“They have established a committee of inquiry,” Samuel said.

“I beg your pardon, Father?”

“A committee of inquiry. Into your papers.”

“I had thought that they were ours. What committee?”

“Mr. Stevens and Mr. Ritson, both enemies of Mr. Malone, have persuaded others to join them in an investigation of all the material you have found. I have been sent a letter by Mr. Malone, outlining their malice and their desire to ruin his reputation.”

“His reputation? What about mine? And yours?” Samuel Ireland flinched. “This is outrageous. Appalling. They are practically telling the world that they suspect us of false dealing.” William burst out laughing. “As if that were possible.”

“There is no reason for laughter.”

“But there is
need,
Father. How else am I to respond?”

“Surely you see it? You must produce your patron.”

“Why should I entertain the least regard for these gentlemen? They are nothing to me.”

“They are everything. They will be your judge and your jury. You must take them to the source of these papers.”

“It cannot be done.”

“I am sorry to press you, William, but the greater world must be considered. You owe it to the English public. These papers are their birthright.”

“I have told you. My patron will not be named or known. She has given me these papers under the strictest injunctions of secrecy. How do I know that, in the presence of these gentlemen, she might deny all knowledge of me and my proceedings? Think of that, Father.”

“You must persuade—”

“She is not open to persuasion.”

“Consider the consequences to me, William.”

“You knew, Father, on what terms I gave you the documents.”

“You are very cruel to a parent.”

“No. Very honest.” William climbed the stairs and retired to bed.

O
N THE FOLLOWING MORNING
a letter was delivered to W. H. Ireland Esquire. It came from Mr. Ritson and politely enquired if Mr. Ireland would be willing to answer questions that had occurred to certain learned gentlemen on their examination of the recent papers attributed to Mr. William Shakespeare. They also hoped to question Mr. Edmond Malone and Mr. Samuel Ireland—

“It is abominable to insert my name in this,” Samuel Ireland interjected.

—in the course of their inquiries, which were to be conducted without the slightest suspicion of censoriousness or blame. They hoped that Mr. William Ireland would accept the invitation in the spirit with which it was intended, viz., that of open and unrestricted debate.

“I think nothing of their syntax,” William said after he had finished reading the letter aloud to his father. “They are strangling their own words.”

“Guilty consciences generally give that impression. Lady Macbeth.”

“She sinned out of ambition, not jealousy. What fools these people are. They are not interested in proving or disproving anything. They want to destroy.”

“What will you write in reply?”

“What do you suggest, Father?”

“Suggest? I have nothing to suggest. I gave you my advice last night. I have nothing more to say.”