The Lambs of London

by Peter Ackroyd

  “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.”

  WITHIN 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.”

  “It would be tantamount to touching him?”

  “Indeed.”

  William seemed to be amused by this. “I have shown the lock to an antique-wig maker, Mr. Malone, who assures me that it is genuine. It is the hair of the period. Somewhat coarser than our own.”

  “I do not doubt it. Nothing surprises me now. It is like some sea of joy.”

  “And there is something else.” Samuel Ireland ducked beneath the counter, and came out with a sheaf of papers. “A complete manuscript.” The sheets had been folded into four parts, and were tied together by some kind of silk thread. The writing was clearly visible. “It is Lear.” He intoned the word as if he were announcing it upon a stage. “It is not a scribal copy. It is in the original hand.”

  “I have examined it with the text,” William said. “And this is the astonishing thing. It is exact in every particular to the Folio, except that the oaths and blasphemies have been removed.”

  His father took up the theme. “The bard, sir, has silently removed those indelicacies you described to us.”

  “I suspect,” William added, “that this was Shakespeare’s copy for the Master of the Revels. He wished to be free of the Master’s censorious pen.”

  “Very like. That was often the way. The offending lines would then be reinstated in performance.” Malone examined the handwriting very carefully. “So this is the bard without the blemish of bawdy. It proves without a doubt that he was a much more finished writer than ever before imagined.”

  “I trust so,” William replied. “I believe so.”

  “I am holding the papers upon which Shakespeare laboured. It is scarcely credible.”

  “Yet it is so, Mr. Malone.”

  “I never thought, in my lifetime—” He broke off, and suddenly burst into a fit of weeping. William helped him to a chair, where he mopped his eyes with a handkerchief. “I apologise. Excuse me.”

  “No need for any apology in the world, sir.” Samuel Ireland was beaming at him. “We have all done it. It is a natural response. It is inevitable. I have wept many times.” He looked at William, and smiled. “I have not been able to contain my feelings. My son is made of sterner stuff, I believe.”

  “No, Father, you are mistaken. I could have cried for joy at any time in these last few months. It is overwhelming.”

  “That is the word.” Malone rose from the chair. “Overwhelming. It allows me to ask you once again. Where do these treasures come from?”

  “It is not in my power.”

  “I must repeat myself. Can you tell us the source of these papers? The origin?”

  “And I can only repeat to you what I have told my father. My benefactor does not wish to be known or named to the public, since it would provoke excessive interest and speculation in one who wishes to remain retired from the world.”

  “This personage,” Samuel Ireland added, “has our entire loyalty and trust.” William looked at his father in surprise. “He has asked for the utmost discretion, and h
e has been pledged it. It is a sacred honour, sir, with which we are rewarded by these gifts.”

  “I regret it very much. But the polite world will no doubt applaud your sentiments.” Malone seemed about to leave, but then hesitated. “Talking of the world, Mr. Ireland, I have a proposal. It is not enough to read of these Shakespearian items. They should be seen. They should be displayed.”

  “I am a little ahead of you, sir. My son and I have decided that they will be shown here.” Again William looked at his father in astonishment. “These humble premises will become a Shakespearian shrine. Was not that your word, William?”

  “I cannot think of many words at the moment, Father.”

  “A shrine to the bard.”

  “I am glad of it. I am delighted.” Malone wiped the last tears from his face. “You must place an advertisement in the Morning Chronicle. We all read it. May I send, Mr. Ireland, one or two idolaters to the shrine? Before it is advertised?”

  “Of course, sir. Only too happy.”

  WHEN EDMOND MALONE had gone William turned to his father. “What was that about my patron? A gentleman? You are digging yourself too deep, Father.”

  “It pleases Mr. Malone to believe that he has our trust.”

  “I do not give a damn what pleases Mr. Malone.” William banged his fist against a low shelf. “And what do you mean? A shrine?”

  “I did not tell you for fear of ruining the surprise.” William did not realise that his own words were being quoted back at him. “Do you not see? The interest will become so great that we will have countless callers.”

  “Not if they have no notion where to call.”

  “Be serious, William. We must prepare ourselves. We must lay out the evidence where it can be examined at leisure by the various interested parties.”

  “Here? In the shop?”

  “In the establishment. What better place for it? We have the counter under glass, and the shelves. We can place a sign in the window announcing ‘The Shakespeare Museum.’ For a small charge of admission—”

  “No! I forbid it!”

  “There must be a small fee. Rosa can stand by the door.”

  “Absolutely not! No money can change hands. Never!”

  Samuel Ireland was surprised by his son’s vehemence. “If that is your wish.”

  “It is.”

  “Then there is no more to be said.”

  “Good.”

  “Except this. I am not a wealthy man, William. You know our proceeds. You cannot become rich with books alone.”

  “I will not listen to you, Father.”

  “If ever there was an opportunity to redeem our fortunes, this offers it. Shakespeare himself was a businessman. He lived from his profits. Do you think that he would condemn us?”

  “None of this, Father, is being done for money’s sake.”

  “Then what was it done for?”

  “It was done for you.”

  “I confess I do not see.”

  William laughed, embarrassed by his admission. “You are like blind Tiresias. Led by a boy.”

  “You take the words from my mouth.”

  “I am used to that, Father.” William suddenly lowered his head. “Very well. I have no objection at all to displaying the papers here. If you will agree with me that no payment is involved, I will gladly show them here under supervision.”

  His father looked away for a moment, his eyes shifting to the middle distance. An increase in numbers might mean a growth in custom; many scholars and literary devotees would come to Holborn Passage for the first time, driven by curiosity or obsession, and would survey the stock of the shop as well as the Shakespearian productions. It was still a worthwhile enterprise. “Agreed, William,” he said. “I bow to your superior judgement.”

  YET ALREADY, that same afternoon, one of Edmond Malone’s particular friends arrived on his recommendation. Thomas Rowlandson, artist and caricaturist, middle-aged and short of breath, entered the bookshop in a flurry of embarrassment and apology. He was wearing a sky-blue jacket with a maroon waistcoat and green plaid trousers. “This is the place? The soil where Shakespeare has been newly planted? Excuse me. Mr. Malone pointed me in this direction. And are you Mr. Ireland?”

  William held out his hand, but Samuel Ireland stepped forward. “We both have the honour of that name, sir.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Has Mr. Malone mentioned me at all? Rowlandson, sir.”

  “You are known to all lovers of Shakespeare, sir.” Samuel Ireland was referring to a series of prints that Rowlandson had executed, showing scenes from the plays. It had been published as The Shakespeare Gallery.

  “Dictated by a higher power. You know who.”

  “You honour us, Mr. Rowlandson.” Samuel Ireland now shook his hand.

  “Simply Tom.”

  “You are the first in our museum. But you have caught us unprepared as yet.”

  Rowlandson was perspiring very freely. “Do you have a lemonade? A ginger-beer? Feeling myself rather thirsty, you see.”

  “Or something stronger?” William had noticed the signs of weakness on his face. “Whisky, sir?”

  “Just a touch. A drop. In soda water, if you would be so kind. Just the minutest amount.”

  William climbed the stairs to the dining-room, and took from a decorated cabinet a crystal decanter of spirit; he poured a large measure, and then from a jug in the adjacent kitchen added a small portion of water. Rowlandson had been waiting for it with some impatience, and only began to speak after he had swallowed it down. “Malone tells me that you have a letter to Mistress Hathaway.”

  “With a portion of the bard’s hair.” William took the empty glass from Rowlandson’s hand.

  “May I?”

  “Sir?”

  “I simply want to touch the hair.”

  “You may.” William fetched the token from a drawer beneath the counter, and presented it to the visitor.

  “This is the letter? This is the genuine Shakespearian thing? The hair is like yours, sir. Chestnut turning into flame.” He looked at the young man strangely, almost shyly, but William was already retreating upstairs. He filled the glass with whisky and a little water before returning to the shop, where Samuel Ireland was standing in one of his customary positions—his legs astride, his back very straight, his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. Rowlandson was reading the note to Anne Hathaway. “This is good,” he said. “This is exact. Young love.” He read out the sentence that seemed to refer to the specimen of hair itself. “‘Neither the gilded bauble that environs the head of majesty, nor honours most weighty, would give me half the joy as did this little work for thee.’” He gave the paper back to William, and eagerly took the proffered drink. “This is delicious, sir. I am referring to the letter. This is moving. This is the genuine spirit. Again I mean—” He gave out a peal of high laughter. “The true note is struck in this missive. Just one more, if you please. A little. The tiniest fraction.”

  Samuel Ireland was standing in the same position. “We have another treasure,” he was saying. “A complete manuscript of Lear.”

  “In his own hand?”

  “We believe so.” William filled his glass again. “He has changed the indelicacies.”

  Rowlandson remembered a line from the play. “‘Oh the blessed gods!’ Act Two, Scene Two.” He sat down heavily upon a chair.

  “Though spoken by Regan, sir.”

  Rowlandson looked up at William with admiration. “You have a sharp mind, Mr. Ireland. And you have a charming smile.”

  “It is one of the expressions the bard has altered. It has become, ‘Oh you bless’d pow’rs.’ Blessed must become a monosyllable in order to preserve the metre.”

  Samuel Ireland brought out the Lear document. He presented it to Rowlandson with the suspicion of a bow. And the artist, putting down his drink, rose to his feet. His hands were trembling as he held the pages of the manuscript. “My forehead, you see, is hot and flushed. Observe it. His fire is heating me
.” Then, to William’s amazement, Rowlandson went down upon his knees. “Now I can die contented. I kiss the record of the bard, and give thanks to God that I have lived to see it.”

  “Please be seated,” Samuel Ireland urged him. “You will injure yourself. The floor is very rough.”

  William suspected that Rowlandson had been half-drunk when he had first arrived, and he helped him as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Rowlandson held him tightly by the arm. “Oh lord,” he muttered. “The energy and grace of it. You have honoured me, Mr. Ireland, with the sight of your jewels.”

  “You honour us, sir.” Samuel Ireland was determined not to be overlooked.

  “You are an artist, sir,” William said. “You comprehend.”

  “I know it.” Rowlandson continued holding William’s arm.

  “Then can you tell me this? The bard tells us that the truest poetry is the most feigning—”

  “Love’s Labour’s Lost, I believe.”

  “Does he mean we will admire what is false?”

  “It is a mere conceit of Shakespeare’s.” Rowlandson took William’s hand in a playful gesture. “The feigned can never be more true than the real. Chaos would come again.” He sat down heavily in the chair, and drained the last of his drink. “Besides, it is not a great interest of mine.”

  “I only put the question.”

  “You must not put questions, Mr. Ireland. You must give us answers. Bring forth new papers!”

  THERE WERE OTHER VISITORS over the next few weeks and, when Samuel Ireland placed an advertisement in the Morning Chronicle concerning “The Shakespeare Museum,” their number increased.

  William had discovered some related items—a letter from the Earl of Southampton to Shakespeare, a summons to the dramatist for non-payment of church rates, a short note from Richard Burbage on stage properties—and the bookshop had indeed come to resemble a cabinet of Shakespearian curiosities. William himself had no wish to manage or to supervise the proceedings. That role was reserved for his father, who had purchased a new bottle-green jacket from the firm of Jackson and Son in Great Turnstile Street. Rosa Ponting sat, with her needlework, on a chair by the door. She was there ostensibly to safeguard umbrellas and coats, but it was Samuel Ireland’s hope that she would be mistaken for a collector of entrance fees: she did not object to silver being pressed into her hand, and swiftly placed the money in a large work-bag that also contained her fan, her snuff-box, her purse and her handkerchief. She welcomed each visitor in the same fashion. “The play is in the left-hand cabinet together with the letters. The receipts and bills are on the adjoining counter. Please not to touch the glass nor spit upon the floor.”