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Authors: Peter Ackroyd
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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.
T HREE 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.”
T HEY 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
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.
T HREE 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.”
T HEY 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
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