‘I-I don’t know.’
‘Never presume,’ he said sagely, as someone placed a bid of ￡5 for the book. ‘Anyway, between one thing and another, she eventually married Charles Gardiner, the Earl of Blessington, and became inordinately rich and cultured. She wrote travelogues and novels and was quite famous for her literary salon at her home in Hyde Park.’
I stared at him wide-eyed, as another bidder put ￡7 on the book.
‘How is it that I have never heard of this woman?’
‘Ah, I suppose things go out of fashion.’
‘Women, you mean. Women go out of fashion.’
‘Do I hear eight pounds?’ The auctioneer, perhaps taking an unconscious cue from Mr Hanna, spoke of Lady Blessington’s famed Gore House, which had been knocked down to make way for The Royal Albert Hall. ‘One of the leading literary and political salons; Dickens, Thackeray and Disraeli were frequent visitors.’
The following lots were ephemera: letters and locks of hair, ghastly portraits of long-dead people I did not know. A man took the seat beside me and nodded to myself and Mr Hanna. He did not have a catalogue and so I handed him mine. My interest had begun to wane until I heard the name Lady Sydney Morgan.
‘And here we have a signed copy of her most well-known work, The Wild Irish Girl, gifted to the Irish People newspaper.’
I shifted forward on my seat so far that I was hardly sitting on it any more. The book itself was beautiful – red boards with a gilt-framed title, almost botanical in nature, with a swooping swallow descending from the top left, pretty ferns growing upwards and an illustrated butterfly on the bottom right. I had to have it.
‘A passionately nationalistic novel,’ the man continued, although I had already raised my hand – an auction room faux-pas! – ‘and a founding text in the discourse of Irish nationalism. The novel proved so controversial in Ireland that Lady Morgan was put under surveillance by Dublin Castle.’
I didn’t care how much it cost, I would own that book. Mr Hanna touched my arm in such a way as to calm my temper, but I was no longer open to advice. Besides, what was it the printer from Bath had said? Women’s literature was not as valuable as men’s …
‘Six pounds to the young lady in the red hat.’
‘Hah!’ I punched the air and presumably made a display of myself, but I didn’t care.
Mr Hanna clapped me on the back and I felt such a thrill as I had never known. Now I understood how Mr Rosenbach must have felt in Sotheby’s.
‘Congratulations, Mademoiselle,’ came a voice from beside me that almost made me jump. I turned around to see a young man with bright eyes and fair hair. My heart fell back into its regular rhythm.
‘Merci, Monsieur …？’
‘Ravel. You speak French?’ he said, shaking my hand.
‘Like the composer, Maurice! Just a little,’ I replied. ‘Do you have an interest in Irish literature?’
‘Certainement. I am writing an article about the Irish vampire.’ He delivered this with the most innocent smile, which was quite disconcerting.
‘Good Lord.’ I nudged Mr Hanna. ‘I do hope there is no such thing.’
‘Ah, that’ll be our very own Bram Stoker.’
‘Oh, yes, now that I am familiar with. What a fascinating book,’ I added.
But the Frenchman shook his head. ‘Not just Bram Stoker. Le Fanu also. But today, I am in search of an older book than that. In fact, it is said that Stoker was inspired by it.’
‘Pray, which book? You must tell us!’
Just then, the bearded man called our attention to a dark-looking tome.
‘And here we have a rare copy of Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin.’
‘Ah, this is it!’ he said.
I could not have been more excited if a vampire was in the room with us. That was the thing about books and writers and stories – you never knew where you would end up. I was so pleased when he won his trophy and also congratulated him.
‘You said that Stoker was inspired by this Maturin fellow. How did you discover it?’ I asked when the auction had ended and the sound of chairs scraping the floor filled the air.
‘At Marsh’s Library. It was the first public library in Ireland. Mais, why do I tell you this? I am certain you already know.’
I shook my head. I felt like a dunce that I had been in Dublin this long and still remained unforgivably ignorant of its literary heritage, beyond the standard Anglo-Irish authors whose writing was easily exported.
‘But these are not Irish names, are they?’ I turned again to Mr Hanna, the encyclopaedia.
‘Huguenot, am I correct?’ he replied.
‘Yes, indeed,’ the Frenchman agreed and before I knew it, he had invited me to visit Marsh’s Library with him.
It was a fine day and it felt good to stretch my legs. Mr Hanna ‘left us young ones to it’ and we chatted enthusiastically as we crossed the Liffey and strolled down Fishamble Street. It turned out that Mr Ravel was from Paris and was studying Irish Literature at Trinity College. He was suitably impressed when I told him about my time working in Shakespeare and Company and we both wondered how it was that we hadn’t met before.
‘I used to go there all of the time! I took my coffee juste en face.’
‘Isn’t life queer?’
‘I find the same in my research. For instance, I only just found out that Charles Maturin was in fact Oscar Wilde’s great-uncle.’
‘You cannot be serious?’ I said, stopping just as we reached the imposing facade of St Patrick’s Cathedral, its grey spires stretching towards a sky of the brightest blue.
‘Yes, it’s true. His niece was Jane Wilde, Oscar’s mother. Of course, you must have read her works.’
‘I’m afraid my academic knowledge of Irish literature is sorely lacking compared to yours, Mr Ravel, but I find this all so fascinating!’
‘I must warn you that her writings are quite anti-British.’
I laughed as we carried on walking past the railings of the church grounds.
‘I am not very easily offended on that score.’
He stopped at an iron gate and ushered me to take the steps ahead of him.
It looked like such a humble entrance for this, the oldest public library in Ireland. The building was equally modest – redbrick and inviting in its own way. No colonnades or grand statues, just a sign with the opening hours.
‘It does belie the significance of what lies within,’ he said, reading my thoughts.
I gasped as we got in and I had my first full view of the library. Row upon row of books housed in beautifully dark wooden shelves, ancient books, whispering like leaves on a breeze. There were benches in every alcove and the air was thick with knowledge. I was stunned into silence.
‘Come, I will show you the cages,’ he said, again with that sweet smile that jarred with his frightful words. ‘Maturin lived quite close by and so he spent hours here, every day, voraciously reading books from the sixteenth century.’
We came to the ‘cages’， which were in fact little compartments with doors that were half wood, half metal grid. Inside, a private space walled in books for study.
‘While it is a public library, it is not a lending library. The librarians noticed that many of their priceless manuscripts were being stolen from the library and—’