The Lambs of London

by Peter Ackroyd

  “Vortigern? The play is his. There can be no doubt about it.”

  “It cannot be, dear.”

  “Why not?” Ireland looked at him defiantly. “It is his style, is it not? His cadence?”

  “I cannot believe—”

  “Can you not? Who else might have written it? Name him.” Charles was silent, and drank from his glass with great deliberation. “No one, you see. You can think of no one.”

  “You must be careful with my sister.”

  “Careful?”

  “Mary is very strange. Very strange. She is attached to you.”

  “As I am to her. But there is no—no interest—between us. I have no reason to be careful.”

  “So you will give me your word as a gentleman that you have no design upon her.” He stood up, swaying slightly.

  “Design upon her? Whatever do you mean by that?”

  Charles was not sure what he meant. “No purpose.”

  “What right have you to question me?” Ireland was also very drunk. “I have no designs or purposes whatsoever.”

  “So you give me your word.”

  “I will give you nothing of the kind. I resent it. I refute it.” He stood up, to face Charles directly. “I cannot consider you my friend. I pity your sister. Having such a brother.”

  “You pity her, do you? So do I.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean what I choose to mean.” He waved his hand, and accidentally knocked his bottle on to the floor. “I love my sister, and I pity her.”

  “The play is Shakespeare’s,” de Quincey said.

  chapter ten

  TWO DAYS LATER Richard Brinsley Sheridan entered the bookshop in Holborn Passage.

  Samuel Ireland, having been alerted by a scrawled message an hour before, was waiting to greet him. “My dear sir. An honour.” Sheridan bowed. “We are all immensely proud.”

  “Where is the young man of the hour?” Sheridan was a large figure, and he found it difficult to turn as William descended the staircase. “Is it you?”

  “I am William Ireland, sir.”

  “May I shake your hand, sir? You have served a great purpose.” Sheridan announced each word as if he were addressing others unseen. “It was Mr. Dryden, I believe, who recommended Vortigern as a great subject for a drama.”

  “I was not aware of that, sir.”

  “Why should you be? His prefaces are not generally known.”

  “Alas not.”

  “Clearly our bard had anticipated him.” With a flourish Sheridan produced the manuscript from the pocket of his top-coat. “Your father sent it by hackney last Tuesday. Much obliged.” Sheridan had a keen glance. “There are bold ideas, sir, even if some are crude and undigested.”

  “Sir?” William appeared to be genuinely puzzled.

  “Shakespeare must have been a very young man when he wrote this. There is one line—” He put his hand to his forehead, as if playing Memory. “‘Under the convex of the wandering heavens, I beg forgiveness of my errant father.’ ‘Wandering’ and ‘errant’ are too closely laid together. Yet a wandering convex is striking.” William looked at him without saying anything. “Well I am not a critic, Mr. Ireland. I am a man of the theatre. This will fill Drury Lane. A new play by William Shakespeare. Found in the most mysterious circumstances. It will create a sensation.”

  “Will you stage it?”

  “Drury Lane has read it. Drury Lane esteems it. Drury Lane accepts it.”

  “Wonderful news, Father!”

  “I see Mr. Kemble as Vortigern,” Sheridan continued. “Such a massive figure on our stage. So imposing. So heavy. And Mrs. Siddons as Edmunda? All lightness and grace. What a delicious creature she is.”

  “May I suggest Mrs. Jordan as Suetonia?” William had caught Sheridan’s mood. “I saw her last week in The Perjured Bride. She overwhelmed me, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “You have the soul of an artist, Mr. Ireland. You understand us. When I close my eyes, I see Mrs. Jordan exactly as Suetonia.” Sheridan did indeed close his eyes. “And what of Harcourt as Wortimerus? If you had known him in The Ragged Veil, he would have frightened you to death. He was tremendous. But do you think”—he hesitated, and looked around at Samuel Ireland—“do you think we should describe it as ‘attributed to Shakespeare’? In case of doubt?”

  Samuel Ireland took a step backwards, and seemed to stand more upright. “What possible doubt could there be, Mr. Sheridan?”

  “A minuscule doubt. A few discrepancies in cadence. A few minor errors in rhyme. A tiny, tiny doubt.”

  “There is no doubt at all.”

  “If we doubt,” William said, “then we put out the light.”

  “A good image, sir. You have a touch of the bard about you, if I may say so.”

  “I have no pretensions as a dramatist, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “But Shakespeare was probably your age when he wrote this.”

  “I cannot say.” William was smiling. “I do not know.”

  “Of course. Nobody knows.” Sheridan turned back to Samuel Ireland. “My clerk, Mr. Dignum, has transcribed the parts. It would be a great honour if you and your son witnessed my Pizarro tomorrow night. You must gain some idea of our scale.”

  SO THE IRELANDS entered Drury Lane the following evening. In the glare of the Argand oil-lamps they mounted the marble steps into the great vestibule with its ceiling covered with the images of Euterpe, the muse of music, Melpomene, the muse of tragedy, and Terpsichore, the muse of dance. Terpsichore herself, painted ten years before by Sir John Hammond, was seen tripping a measure with various cherubs and shepherds.

  “Guests of Mr. Sheridan!” Samuel Ireland announced his arrival to the usher, dressed in Drury Lane green, who was not at all inclined to notice him. “Guests of the manager, Mr. Sheridan!”

  The usher scratched his wig, silver and powdered, and took the slip of paper. He checked it against a written list pasted upon one of the gilt pillars of the vestibule, and then bowed. “’Amlet Box,” he said. “Follow me.” He led father and son up the carpet of a staircase resplendent in ebony and gold, and along the first-floor corridor where engravings of Garrick, Betty, Abingdon and others adorned the crimson flock-papered walls.

  The Hamlet Box smelled of damp straw and liquorice cordial and cherries. It was the smell of a London theatre. William relished it, just as he relished the odours of perfume and pomade rising in waves from the restless and animated audience. It was the second night of Pizarro, a musical drama set in Peru at the time of the Spanish assault against the Incas. When the overture began, its melody bound the audience in the common expectation of enchantment; William felt himself to be dissolved in the haze of light and sound that hung over the auditorium. The drop-curtain was raised to reveal a river, a forest, and a range of mountains topped with snow. The river seemed naturally to flow, and the trees rustled in a breeze that passed over the stage. For William this was more beautiful—more intense, more brightly coloured—than the material world itself. And then the Spanish army marched on stage with pikes and muskets. In his enthusiasm William clapped his hands and leaned over the side of the box to catch a glimpse of Charles Kemble as Pizarro, the Spanish general. The audience was in a state of excitement as the actor walked to the centre of the stage, its cheers and hurrahs heightened by the sudden firing of the muskets by the soldiers.

  Kemble gestured with his hands for silence. “‘We have come to subjugate a proud and alien race—’”

  “This is splendid,” Samuel Ireland whispered to his son. “Surpasses everything.”

  William watched Kemble with fascination. The man had become a Spanish general—not just in appearance and in manner, but in his being. Had he become Pizarro, or had Pizarro become him? The breath of both had become one. William experienced a moment of elation. Here was proof that you might flee the prison of the self. De Quincey had been wrong.

  Mrs. Siddons now emerged as the Inca princess, Elvira, to prolonged applause. She spoke dir
ectly to the audience as if they were her fellow-actors. “‘The faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave.’” She recited her lines in a high chant, her hands across her breast in an attitude of spotless rectitude. “‘Tell your commanders this and tell them, too, we seek no change. Least of all, such change as you would bring upon us.’”

  This was the meaning of the theatre, as William now understood it. It allowed the spectators to rise out of their own selves in an act of communion. Why had he not considered this before? Just as the actors performed this ritual of transformation, becoming more than mere men and women, so the audience attained some higher state of existence and awareness.

  An Inca ritual was taking place on stage. Mrs. Jordan had emerged, clad in plumes and panther-skins, and was engaged in a dance with Mr. Clive Harcourt as Coro. The music of the orchestra came only from the violins; their melody filled Drury Lane with pathos and wonder. William sat back, astonished at the spectacle, and noticed an engraving of Garrick on the side-wall of the box; it was of the actor as Hamlet, contemplating the skull.

  Father and son left the theatre elated. They had glimpsed the possibilities for Vortigern. “I see ruins,” Samuel told William. “I see forests stretching to the horizon.”

  “Mr. Kemble is very powerful.”

  “He has a remarkable voice.”

  “Massive feeling. He will make Vortigern great.”

  “And a very striking deportment. He quite overwhelmed me.” They were walking north, past Macklin Street and Smart’s Gardens. “You must introduce me to your patron, William. I must thank her for permitting you—for granting you—”

  “The manuscripts were her gift to me. I have told you, Father. She does not wish to be known to the public in any way.”

  “But surely to a father—”

  “No, sir. Not even to you.”

  “I have been considering this very carefully, William. What if some critic—some thankless creature—were to claim that it was not Shakespeare’s work?”

  “I would deny it.”

  “But she would prove your case.”

  “Case? There is no case, Father. It will not arise. Anyone who enters Drury Lane, and sees the play, will know it to be Shakespeare’s. There will be no doubt about it.”

  SAMUEL IRELAND WAS NOT entirely convinced. He and Rosa Ponting had often discussed his son’s unpredictable behaviour. There were occasions when William would keep to his room for hours at a time without offering any explanation; and, as Rosa discovered, his door was always locked. He would often seem to be awake, and active, all night. She suspected a woman, but could find no evidence of female presence. Since William never permitted either of them to enter his room, it remained a suspicion. When she mentioned it to Samuel, he laughed. “How could he smuggle her past us, Rosa? Think of it. He cannot be seeing or keeping a woman. Consider the noise. The creaking.” It was true that every sound in William’s chamber could be heard in the dining-room below: all they ever heard was the incessant tread of his feet.

  “What of Miss Lamb, Sammy? Is that nothing?”

  “Miss Lamb is a trusted friend. A customer.”

  “Why did he have a fire in the middle of the summer?” They had seen the white smoke coming out of the middle chimney.

  Her question did not seem to follow any particular line of thought, and he had no ready answer. “Really, Rosa, I cannot answer for my son.”

  “He is doing something.”

  “And what precisely would that be?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” She adopted an air of nonchalance. “It is no concern of mine how your son is occupied.” At that moment William walked upstairs from the bookshop, and their conversation was at an end.

  THREE DAYS AFTER the performance of Pizarro, the Irelands attended a rehearsal of Vortigern in the empty auditorium of Drury Lane. They sat upon stools at the side as Charles Kemble and Clive Harcourt paced upon the stage. Harcourt, slim and delicate of feature, had been cast as Wortimerus.

  “In deep betrayal steeped I come before you,

  Father, seeking the mercy of your blessed hand.”

  The actor had seemed so slight, so unworthy of attention, that William was amazed how suddenly he came to life; it was as if he had been visited by some unseen power. He actually seemed to grow taller. Kemble, thick-set and orotund, had become Vortigern.

  “Time was, alas, I needed not this plea

  But here’s a secret and a stinging thorn

  That wounds my troubled nerves—O son, O son,

  By boldly thrusting on thee dire ambition

  If there is aught of malice in the plot

  ’Twas I who led you to deep-dyed betrayal.”

  He stopped, dissatisfied with his rendering. “Should I not suggest, Sheridan, that the son carries more blame than the father?” His voice was still that of Vortigern. “The son murdered his uncle to please his father. That is so. But should the father then blame himself?” He looked towards William, for some assistance in the matter.

  “The father urged him on,” William said. “He would not have conceived the plot without his father’s presence.”

  “His presence? That is very interesting.” He walked to the front of the stage, and looked out over the darkened auditorium. A few shafts of light came from the lantern of the dome, winking and glimmering with particles of dust. “I must convey my presence, even when I am off the stage?” He turned back to Sheridan. “Is it possible?”

  “Anything, for you, is possible.”

  “I could be heard laughing. Or singing perhaps. My voice would carry from the wings.”

  “Vortigern does not sing, sir.” William ventured his opinion very quietly.

  “Surely you could write a song, Mr. Ireland? Some old English ballad will suit.”

  “I am not a writer, Mr. Kemble.”

  “Oh no? I have seen you in Westminster Words.”

  William seemed flattered that his essays had been noticed by so great a personage. “I could perhaps invent a verse, if you so—”

  “Make it Shakespearian. Stirring. Something to do with the clash of arms and the flight of ravens. You know the sort of thing.”

  Mrs. Siddons, taking the role of Edmunda, was growing impatient. “If Mr. Kemble is prepared, we might try a little more of the original.” She was of relatively short stature but, when she spoke, she seemed to William to be a large woman; her voice preceded her, as it were, and warned people that she was coming. “I always think it a mistake to depart from the actual words. Don’t you?”

  It was not clear whom she was addressing, but Kemble came up to her. “We are ready for you, Sarah.”

  She took up her part, and began to read.

  “Enough. You both are judged aright

  Of fouling name, and fame, and your dear country.

  The sentence will be swift and sudden

  Upon so bold and dark a plot.

  Never was maze more tortuous.”

  “Sarah, dear. You have something in your hair.”

  She put her hands up to her head, and a moth fluttered away. Harcourt burst into laughter, went down on one knee, and then rolled upon the stage.

  She looked at him with distaste. “For a small man,” she said, “you make a deal of noise.”

  The rehearsals continued until late in the afternoon, when Mrs. Siddons declared that she would “drop” without camomile tea. William was still in high spirits, however. The words he had previously seen only in manuscript had taken on the dimensions of the human world. They had become feelings, enlarged or tentative as the actors had judged them.

  HE LEFT THE THEATRE that evening with his father; they were both walking quickly, as if to keep pace with their own thoughts, when William almost collided with a tall young man about to cross Catherine Street. He recognised him at once. He had met him in the Salutation and Cat, on the night when he and Charles had argued. “Good Lord, I know you,” he said. “Ch
arles has introduced us.”

  “Drinkwater, sir. Siegfried Drinkwater.”

  Ireland introduced him to his father, who bowed to the young man and professed himself honoured and gratified by his acquaintance.

  “And how is Pyramus and Thisbe?”

  “Have you not heard? It is cancelled.”

  “Why?”

  “Miss Lamb is very unwell. She cannot leave her room.”

  “What?” William had heard nothing from the Lambs. He regretted his quarrel with Charles; he could not remember how it began, but he recalled the intensity of his drunken passion. “What is the matter with her?”

  “It is some kind of fever. Charles is not sure.”

  “I know the cause. She never recovered from her fall.” He was addressing his father. “By accident she slipped into the Thames. I told you.”

  “Well,” Siegfried said. “It is farewell to Snout and to Flute.”

  THE NEXT MORNING William walked into Laystall Street, at a time when he knew Charles would be at business.

  The door was opened by Tizzy, who, on seeing him, gave a peculiar titter. “Oh is it you, Mr. Ireland? You have been a stranger.”

  “I had no notion that Miss Lamb was ill. I came as soon as—”

  “She is poorly still. But she is sitting up. Please to wait downstairs.”

  When he walked into the drawing-room he saw Mr. Lamb sitting cross-legged on the Turkey rug. “Beware the watchman,” the old man told him. “The watchman comes when no one knows.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “It arrives in the night. It is the work of ages.” He lapsed into silence.

  A few moments later Tizzy appeared. “She will be down directly, Mr. Ireland.”

  “Please not for my sake. If she is still unwell—”

  “She needs the change.”

  When Mary entered the room, William realised that there had been an alteration in her. She seemed much calmer, as if she were intent upon some inner purpose. She greeted William with a light kiss upon his cheek, a gesture that astonished him. Tizzy had already turned away, and had not seen it. Mr. Lamb folded his arms, rocking backwards and forwards on the rug.