The Brothers Boswell

by Philip Baruth

  When I do straighten, it is to find Johnson looking me over slowly, the unkempt brows knitting in concentration. His glance has all the appearance of genuine benevolent curiosity, as though he is in fact looking over the brother of a good friend for the very first time.

  He meets my glance just once, but holds my gaze longer than one might engage a stranger’s eye. I’m certain I can see him inside that glance, the Samuel Johnson I know. And I almost sense that he is saying something with the directness of this look, conveying a message, even pleading with me somehow.

  But then he smiles, and it is a prepared little smirk.

  And he says to me, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  There I have my answer, or one of them. The world that Is: he will not acknowledge me, at least not of his own accord.

  For the first time in my experience of Johnson, he reminds me of a man in every aspect his inferior—of Gentleman, that is. Gentleman had the actor’s ability to disappear completely into a version of himself that had never whispered in my ear, never held me, never seen me as anything other than the painfully shy, tagalong brother of a wealthy patron. Gentleman’s face, his eyes, could utterly disavow what he had done with great eagerness just moments before.

  He could give you the impression that he was altogether innocent and uncomprehending, that your memory was the stuff of dreams. That you were insane.

  Effortlessly, Gentleman could do this. Later, he would apologize and cajole and explain the need for secrecy. An actor lives by the public’s favor, he would plead. And then he would do it all over again. And for weeks the betrayal would ache like a needle broken off in my heart.

  Now, here, Johnson waits for me to complete the pleasantries, looking down his long gargoyle’s nose, the smirk still in place.

  And I find that I can only smile myself. After all, I am not unprepared, this night at least. I have much to fall back upon. And so I do something I never quite managed with Gentleman: I push a bit.

  “Have we never met before, then, Mr. Johnson?” I ask.

  “I have never had the pleasure, sir. It is a deficiency well remedied, however.” The second bottle of wine has loosened his tongue a bit, heightened his gallantry.

  “You are kind, indeed. But I have the most distinct recollection of a meeting. And that not too far in the distant past. I might swear it was recently, in fact. And certainly somewhere in London.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  “How strange. It seems so very clear to me, this impression.”

  Johnson hesitates. “You have the advantage of me then, I am afraid. I remember no such meeting.” A button is missing from his waistcoat, allowing his stomach to force his shirt unflatteringly out into the light.

  Sensing a slight shimmy in the conversation, James moves to right it. “No doubt you are remembering an engraving of Mr. Johnson’s face, John, seen in a bookseller’s window. I believe,” he says to Johnson, voice taking on just the slightest sheen of flattery, “that such engravings of your countenance are common enough in the City these days, sir.”

  The great man nods complacently, and James smiles to see the compliment push home. And I smile as well, before pressing my thumbnail again against the exposed conversational nerve.

  “I have seen such engravings, certainly,” I say, and I hold his eye. I cannot keep a very faint chill out of my tone. “None a proper likeness, of course. But on my life, I believe we have met before. Perhaps we have eaten beside one another in a chophouse.”

  “I am sure we have not.”

  “Or passed one another on a bridge. Nothing remains so firmly fixed in a man’s mind as a face glanced in a flash of lamplight, especially out over the water.”

  Johnson’s smirk has disappeared all but entirely now, slowly replaced by a stony indifference. He glances once, but significantly, at James before putting a period to the subject. Suddenly his phrases are punctuated by sharp throat-clearing noises, like little barks. This is how he directs conversation, then, by showing his displeasure openly and easily.

  “I cannot speak for whether I have been seen, sir. But certainly I must be allowed to be the sole and the only judge of what I myself have seen. I have never seen you before this moment, and I am not accustomed to having my assertions on such matters challenged. It is an odd point to insist upon. The important fact, I believe, is that we see one another now, and that your brother’s introduction secures my good will. Let us speak no more nonsense about engravings and bridges, sir.”

  Predictably enough, James—whose senses have been carefully attuned for the sound of ruffled feathers all day—matches Johnson’s tone.

  “Indeed, let us turn to more practical questions, John. You have come a long journey, if you’ve come from home, and you have found us here dining agreeably, of all the coffee houses in London. But how is it that you have stumbled upon us, and why? You say it is not Father, but why then are you come? What is the matter? Pray let us have it.”

  There is a small backless bench resting beneath the near side of the table, and without asking I draw it out, set myself down upon it. “Oh, you are not so very difficult to trace, the two of you. You cut quite a figure about town. I have had much intelligence of your doings, I assure you.”

  Like the reference to his engraved image, this remark improves Johnson’s mood, so much so that he shares the implicit compliment with James. “I have told you, have I not, Boswell,” he says, “that the sight of an old dog laboring to keep pace with a young one would quickly become a jest. We are a sad pair.”

  “We are well matched for all of that, sir. I labor to keep pace in conversation, and so it is all one.”

  There is a nail jutting from the wall, just within reach, and I hang my hat upon it.

  James watches the action, and it seems only then to dawn on him that I am making myself more or less to home.

  But before he can ask his questions again, I answer them. “From your landlord, James, I learned that you planned to spend the day with Mr. Johnson, and that you would be rowing to Greenwich.”

  Here James blushes, his boasting revealed.

  “And from your servant Francis Barber, Mr. Johnson, I learned that you were returned from Greenwich, and headed here to sup. As I say, neither of you would be a difficult animal to track singly. Together, you must give up concealment altogether.”

  More self-satisfied chuckling, before James leans forward, as if to clear away a last, annoying cobweb of mystery. “All right, then, I confess it. I am proud of a day’s jaunt with Mr. Johnson, and may have hinted as much to Mr. Terrie. But why is it that you have come, John? What is the matter, then?”

  I can only look at him, my brother. For even now, staring back at me, he has no idea. That I might have tracked them across the City simply in order to be with them, to be one of the party, he cannot imagine. Or perhaps he does imagine it, but wishes to pretend it cannot be so.

  And so I tell him, plainly.

  “Nothing is the matter, James. I have come to spend the evening with you. And with Mr. Johnson, if you will both have me. Is there such mystery there? Must I spell it out so very plainly? I have gone a long day’s journey myself today, and I would have a glass with you. With you both, if I may.”

  But I can see immediately that the words find no purchase. Again Johnson and James exchange a look, and I see very clearly to the end of the next five minutes. Even to my own ear, my voice sounds pleading and schoolboyish rather than easy and sociable.

  “It is wonderful to see you, of course, John,” James begins earnestly, “but you find us only just now beginning what we have put off and put off all afternoon. Mr. Johnson has been so good as to agree to consult with me on the course of my education, before I sail for Utrecht. Tonight is perhaps our last opportunity. And as you know better than anyone else, attempting to educate me would consume the whole of any man’s attention.”

  James has never been able to bear inflicting genuine pain or disappointment, for all his
love of needling, and he throws out something quickly by way of consolation. His eyes are pleading with me.

  “Come to me in the morning, when you have rested, and let us breakfast together. Then we will take a turn together in the Park and plot a fitting celebration of your return. And perhaps,” here he shoots an inquiring glance at Johnson for approval, “the three of us may find another quiet evening before I leave to dine together in a more leisurely way.”

  Johnson gives a perfunctory half-nod, but no other sign that he approves the throwing of this bone. He has drawn back on the bench, drawn his arms up across his chest, and seems simply to be waiting out the tail end of this conversation.

  And I try again, in a lighter vein, wagging my finger, but with less of a sense that anything is to be gained. “Ah, it is not right of you, James, to monopolize the conversation of a man such as Mr. Johnson. Truly it is not. I too have spent my youth reading and marveling over the Dictionary, after all. And I too smuggled in the Rambler when I was supposed to be studying my Latin.”

  My voice breaks up into nervous laughter. “And I am famished after my journey, famished this instant, not tomorrow morning. It is not a great deal to ask, I shouldn’t think, to sit and listen and call for a bite to eat. Not a great deal to ask of an older brother, when a younger comes up to Town. And a soldier at that! Come now, don’t be hard. Pour me a bumper, and I will pour you the next.”

  My insistence has left James at a visible loss about how to proceed. Above all, he does not want the little standoff to escalate into something unpleasant. That would tear the fine tissue of his day’s excursion beyond repair. And yet sharing the day with me is nearly as unthinkable.

  But of course there is no need for him to find a solution. His mentor and protector has sensed that James has been placed in a box, an uncomfortable one, and so suddenly Johnson flares to life.

  He leans as far forward as the heavy table will allow, the big arms unwound and suddenly alive with irritation. The tiny barking tics of a few moments ago are lost in the low, sustained roar.

  “See here, sir, I have lost patience with you,” he says, all but glaring at me. “I have lost patience, and I tell you so openly. You have come where you are not invited, after wheedling information to which you were not entitled. You have rapped on our door, interrupting our conversation, and then marched into the room without waiting for the courtesy of an invitation.

  “It is not enough that I assert, as a man does a thousand times a day, that we are strangers. You would have us previously acquainted, and insist upon it, put me to the odd task of disavowing it. I find it impossible to believe that he who raised your elder brother with such a notable sufficiency of manners can be responsible for your own questionable upbringing as well.”

  The blood is rushing to my face now, and there is no disguising it. James looks openly horrified, not for my sake of course but for his own. His body language could not be more clear: he has turned his back on me almost entirely, in a bid to calm his new friend.

  Yet Johnson is not finished, not nearly so. He goes on, pointing his finger directly at me. “And now your brother welcomes you, but merely suggests a more appropriate moment to celebrate your return. He offers you his attention at breakfast, and in other ways. Attentions not every heir of every house in the Kingdom would offer a younger sibling. And again, you defy his civilities and make it clear that you will obtrude yourself until such time as you are asked directly to leave. If that is the only currency you will accept, then consider yourself paid.

  “It is shockingly poor behavior, I tell you, shockingly poor. And being a brother—indeed, being a soldier—excuses none of it, but renders it in fact all the more inexcusable. We have much to discuss, sir, and little enough time in which to do so. That said, we will thank you to leave us to it.”

  Johnson finishes the rebuke out of breath, and his chest heaves a bit with the effort. His lips are tightly shut; the air whistles in his flaring nostrils. He is shaking his head slowly, back and forth. And then he sees something on the table that puzzles him, and he squints down at it.

  It is my fist, resting on the tablecloth. And in my fist is one of the dags.

  Johnson can only stare at it, confused perhaps by the dull sheen of gold.

  And as he does so, I cock the piece audibly with my thumb. I swivel the muzzle so that it faces directly into the white hole produced by the missing button on Johnson’s waistcoat. It feels good to point the weapon directly at him, directly at his large body. And it has a remarkable effect on the volume of the conversation, as well.

  “John,” James manages, testing rather than breaking the silence.

  I say nothing, and Johnson—drawn up stiffly against the wall bench, fists balled, face a gathering thunderhead—remains mute as well.

  Only then does the depth of James’s enchantment become clear: rather than address me, and the gun in my hand, and the present threat to his own safety, he can think only of clearing his name with Johnson. “Sir, my brother is not well, has not been well. It has been a difficult few months. I should have told you before now. John has been hospitalized. His history of—”

  I shift my gaze, but not the piece in my hand. “It is our history, James. We are a half-mad race, we Boswells. Do not deny it. I’m sure Mr. Johnson would prefer the truth of the matter, rather than fairy tales.”

  Johnson speaks then, nearly sputtering with rage. Still, the voice is low, and respectful of the weapon finally. “You have no idea what I would prefer, sir. You have no idea how civilized men behave. I will thank you never to speak in my name.”

  I look at him, and let my own voice come up. “And I will thank you to remember which of us can snuff out the other like a candle flame, sir.” I pause a moment to let the threat settle in the warm air. There are only two reasons to draw a weapon—one is to kill outright, and the other is to manage behavior. In the second case, it is best to clarify the sort of behavior you seek as quickly as possible, better for all concerned.

  “I’ve come to have a conversation with you both, a conversation I have found difficult to start in any other way. And I intend to manage this conversation very carefully, and believe me when I say that I will sooner see one or both of you dead than see it go unfinished. Honest answers are all that I ask, and such answers are the only door out of this room for the two of you. I’m afraid you must take me at my word. But I am yet a man of my word: if you deal honestly, no harm will come to either you.”

  James has always been on the heavy side, prone to sweating through his vests under the best of circumstances. Now his face all but shines in the light. This moment is precisely what he’s feared since I came up to London in January—that I will shame him, harm him, blast his prospects. He has felt all of this and more, no doubt, but kept his fears to himself. But the three of us shall keep our secrets no more.

  “I begin with Mr. Johnson. Do you know the particular word for the object I hold now in my hand, Mr. Johnson?”

  Johnson’s lips remain tight. He will not play, apparently.

  “It is a word that appears in your own dictionary, sir. Come now.”

  James very slowly begins to lean forward, as though to speak with me, and for the first time I move the piece in his direction. “Do not interrupt, James. Surely Mr. Johnson can answer a simple question about the book for which he is so widely acclaimed. Can you not recall the word, sir?”

  “It is a pistol,” Johnson says finally. He cannot tell whether to humor me, and hope to talk the gun from my hand, or to thunder at me and demand it. And so his answers to my questions are at once careful, withering, and quiet.

  “A brilliant response, Mr. Johnson. Your famed perspicacity is on full display. Yes, it is a pistol. Cocked and loaded, at that. But come, sir, what sort of pistol? Any man will call it a pistol, but only a writer of dictionaries would know its more specific name. Perform your function for us, if you will. If you can.”

  “John! You cannot talk to Mr. Johnson in that way,” James hiss
es softly, unable to stop himself.

  But Johnson answers in any event. “I am no expert on firearms.”

  “Indeed, and yet your dictionary contains all of the various terminology. Where came all of this recorded knowledge if you did not originally possess it yourself? I do seem to recall a story that your clerks—the men who actually wrote the book out in longhand—were Scots, were they not? Perhaps it is they who should be given credit for the work. Perhaps the authorship was more joint than is commonly understood. I hope you take note of this development, James.”

  Johnson does not take the bait, drawing short, shallow breaths. “I do not know, I tell you. Make of that ignorance what you will.”

  “It is a dag, sir. A word that appears prominently in your dictionary. Do you know the derivation at least?”

  Johnson’s face expresses happiness and joy only with great difficulty; it is designed for outrage, and anger. It is a troll’s face. Now it is doing what it does best: the eyebrows slant down like two great dark slashes, the jaw juts out, and the wild networks of capillaries in his cheeks are aflame with color. His passion begins to get the better of his reason, clearly.

  He begins, in a word, to become comfortable with the situation, comfortable enough to begin to assert his anger, and that must be quickly stamped out.

  Suddenly, I lift the pistol into the air, my arm tightly outstretched, bringing the muzzle as close to his heart as I am able.

  Not close enough to be swatted by one of the man’s big hands, but close enough so that he may actually peer down into the open mouth of the thing and see a world lacking its Samuel Johnson.

  Johnson speaks, but very softly and carefully. “You will not fire. There are twenty men below stairs who will take you the instant you do.”

  I continue to sight down the length of my arm, and out over the snub nose of the dag, and my own voice is comparably careful. “This is a very quiet piece, actually. And Mrs. Parry has been told to expect the tumult of a birthday party. With crackers and everything festive. She has assured me that our celebration will remain quite private.”