Mrs Desmoulins opened the door to Boswell; she was somewhat flushed. Sir Joshua, Arthur Murphy and Mr Allen, the printer, were already in the parlour, but as yet Johnson had given no sign that he wished her to withdraw. The preferred Mrs Williams was there, and Levet too, the one sitting by the fire in her faded scarlet, the other in the far corner, holding a cup out of reach of the cat perching on his bony knee. Mrs Desmoulins sat down beside Levet, something she would not usually do, but then she and he were not often present when Samuel entertained visitors.
At once Boswell began to praise Samuel’s manuscript of the Poets. He argued that two hundred guineas was but poor recompense for such a mighty work of genius. ‘It was not guineas,’ corrected Johnson, ‘but pounds … and it was not, Sir, that I was paid too little, rather that I wrote too much.’
‘It is a work of infinite scholarship,’ gushed Boswell, and proceeded to recite whole passages from the essay on Pope. He spoke so long and so fulsomely that Johnson growled, ‘Enough, Sir. I wrote it in my usual way, dilatorily and hastily, unwilling to work and working with vigour and haste. Say no more, for it is not yet in print and your recommendations, which arise from prejudice, are not to be trusted.’ He then poured out brandy for his guest, which silenced Boswell for the moment.
Sir Joshua talked of having called upon poor Topham Beauclerk, who, he feared, was not long for this world. ‘His habit of taking opium has wasted him,’ he lamented.
‘I have heard’, Mrs Williams ventured, ‘that after he stayed the night at Mr Langton’s, his bed linen was so infested with vermin it required burning.’ At this Samuel looked angry, but held his tongue. Had I spoken so cruelly, thought Mrs Desmoulins, I should have been shown the door to the cellar.
Boswell brought up the subject of a lecture he had recently attended at Coachmakers’ Hall. It had dealt with the resurrection of the saints following the crucifixion, and with the accounts of those claiming to have seen such a phenomenon. Mrs Williams thought it an interesting subject and one she would like to hear discussed, at which Johnson argued that it could not be interesting because there could be no proof. He was not disputing the fact of resurrection – ‘The question simply is’, he reasoned, ‘whether departed spirits ever have the power of making themselves perceptible to us; a man who thinks he has seen an apparition can only be convinced himself; his authority will not convince another …’
He was interrupted by an unearthly howl from the shadowy corner of the room. All were startled, fearing that indeed an apparition had appeared among them; it was only Levet, upon whose knee the cat had seen fit to sharpen its claws.
‘There is, however,’ continued Johnson, ‘a not infrequent happening, one I have experienced myself, of being called … that is, hearing one’s name pronounced by a familiar person, but one too far distant for the sound to have been uttered by human organs—’
‘Sir, Sir,’ cried Boswell, ‘I have known somebody to whom this happened. An acquaintance of mine was walking home to Kilmarnock when from a distant wood his name was called in the voice of his brother, who for many years had been residing in America—’
‘And I suppose’, said Johnson, ‘that some days later he heard news of his brother’s death …’
‘Why, yes. Exactly so.’
‘The voice I heard’, Johnson said, ‘was that of my dear mother. I was at Oxford, turning the key in the lock of the college gate when she quite distinctly called Sam.’
‘And did you then receive news of her death?’ asked Mr Allen.
‘No, Sir, simply a letter requesting the sum of two pounds.’
Soon after, they sat down to dinner. There was not sufficient room at the table for Levet, who ate in the corner, fighting the cat from his plate. The meal was not lavish yet the cold meats were well seasoned and Mrs Williams’s apple chutney declared delicious. Some months before, Johnson had bought a silver pepper pot, which he now passed round the company with a degree of reverence more fittingly accorded to a rare manuscript. When Arthur Murphy made use of it, shaking its contents liberally on his plate, Johnson plucked it from him and, after wiping it on the skirt of his coat, placed it out of reach.
It was when the dishes had been cleared away, and a third bottle of port opened, that Sir Joshua mentioned his visit to Streatham Park a week before. He had, he said, found Mr Thrale much altered. His appetite was now so terrible that one could scarce bear to look upon him at table. ‘At one end’, said he, ‘there were lobster, carp and oysters … at the other, hams, boiled chickens, turkeys … and in between a quantity of pies … all of which he helped himself to in abnormal quantities and fell upon as if any moment his plate might be snatched away … and all the while champing with such voraciousness that the veins in his nose turned purple and his eyes threatened to pop from his head.’
‘To show one’s concern,’ Johnson said, ‘or to try to stop him, does little good. Mrs Thrale and I have tried everything in our power to modify his eating, to no avail.’
Arthur Murphy said Mrs Thrale was now back in town and happy to be residing at the fashionable centre of things. He had called on her but yesterday and found her preoccupied with plans for a musical evening she was soon to hold at Grosvenor Square.
‘It is curious, is it not,’ Mr Boswell remarked, ‘how fond Mrs Thrale has become of the human voice uplifted in song?’
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Mrs Desmoulins was not alone in noticing the sly smile that accompanied his words. Then Johnson stood and poured himself a large measure of brandy; every eye turned upon him.
‘Sir,’ Mr Allen exclaimed, ‘I did not think you drank.’
‘For many years I have not done so,’ he replied, ‘and have but recently returned to it, though not in society.’
‘I once remember’, said Sir Joshua, ‘many years ago, shortly before you gave up the habit, you drank three bottles of port, whereupon you found yourself so unable to pronounce a certain difficult word that after trying three times to get it out you put down your cup and left the company.’
‘The word was villainous,’ Johnson said, ‘and it was not the word that was difficult, merely that my lips refused to shape it.’
Mr Boswell was in such an inebriated state at the close of the evening that he was unable to walk. Mr Murphy was obliged to piggy-back him into the Court, where, raucously singing, he was tumbled into Sir Joshua’s carriage.
Mrs Desmoulins would have liked to have stayed downstairs in the warmth, but Johnson said she must go to her bed. The wretched Levet was not asked to retire. Indeed, no sooner had Mrs Williams said goodnight than he rose unsteadily from his corner and took her chair by the fire. The cat followed instantly and leapt upon his lap. Mrs Desmoulins reckoned it was the odour of herrings about his person that made the animal so fond.
When I am alone and dying, she thought, Sam shall hear my voice calling his name, and weep at the sound of it.
Mrs Thrale was determined her musical evening would become the talk of London society. With the help of Mr Piozzi she had hired a score of musicians and performers, and instructed Henry to compose a menu of such variety and munificence that it would require twenty-four servants to carry the dishes from kitchen to table. This task, one dear to his heart, visibly appeared to restore the spirits of the Brewer.
Mrs Thrale would wear a gown fit for an appearance at Court. It was made from material copied from goods brought from the South Seas, of a striped Otaheite pattern, trimmed with crêpe, gold lace and foil, and ornamented with stones very little inferior in lustre to the most brilliant jewels; the trimming alone had cost sixty-five pounds. When she tried it on for the benefit of Queeney, the girl declared it too loud.
Mrs Thrale had coaxed Mr Piozzi into beginning the concert with a song of her own choosing. Its words, she said, were particularly apt in regard to her husband. On the opening line, Piozzi must look directly at him –
If the heart of a man is depressed with cares,
The mist is dispelled when a woman appears
.
– and then at Sophy Streatfield.
Roses and Lilies her cheeks disclose,
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those.
Press and caress her;
With blisses her kisses
Dissolve us in pleasure and so repose.
– at which it would be provoking if Miss Streatfield did not oblige with an imbecile display of tears.
Mrs Thrale persuaded Johnson to be present at one of Mr Piozzi’s rehearsals; she said she would appreciate his comments. He sat astride a chair and endeavoured to look pleasant. When the Italian soared into the chorus and, gazing calf-eyed at Mrs Thrale, sang of kisses and blisses, he stomped from the room.
Later, Mrs Thrale rebuked him for such ill-mannered behaviour. ‘You may not like music,’ she chided, ‘but you have hurt Mr Piozzi’s feelings,’ to which he savagely retorted that he did not recall her being so conscious of feelings, Piozzi’s or those of anyone else, the night they had been guests of Dr Burney. She stared at him with genuine astonishment. She does not remember the past, he thought, for the present is now all important.
On the night of April 2nd, Thrale ate so much that he became comatose and collapsed with his head in the mess on his plate. Mrs Thrale sent for the physician, Pepys, who, after examining the sick man, said either he must be put under legal restraint or else suffer certain death. Mrs Thrale could not agree to the remedy. She declared that as it was Henry’s money that was spent on such gastronomic excesses, it was his right to throw it away – but if his mouth could be sewn up, she would pay for the thread herself.
The following morning, at breakfast, Henry again stuffed himself so full that Johnson cried out, ‘Sir, such eating is little better than suicide.’ An hour later Thrale went out, left visiting cards at various houses, rode his horse twice round the Square, and slept until roused for dinner. They now dined at eight rather than four in the afternoon as had been common at Southwark. Fanny Burney was present, Mr Langton, Queeney, Johnson and Mrs Thrale.
There was an attempt at chat, though it was difficult to shift Mrs Thrale from talk of her concert on the morrow. Mr Langton started to recall his knowledge of the Reverend Mr Hackman, who, two years earlier, had gone to the gallows for shooting the mistress of Lord Sandwich, but he was so distracted by the behaviour of Thrale that he soon trailed into silence.
The Brewer’s appetite was beyond sensibility – he consumed four bowls of broth, two dozen oysters, two lobsters, three game pies, seven lamb chops and three stuffed capons, the whole washed down with numerous bottles of strong beer. Those around him put down their forks and stared at him aghast; even the servants looked frightened.
He rose before the puddings were laid out, and belching loudly and frequently quitted the room. Mrs Thrale followed him to the foot of the stairs. She called out to him, but he merely raised his hand in a dismissive gesture and continued upwards.
Five minutes later Fanny Burney entered his chamber and found him apparently none the worse for wear. ‘Go, Miss Burney,’ he bade. ‘I have a desire to be alone.’
‘He is less red now’, she disclosed on her return to the table, ‘and perfectly lucid.’ A half-hour after, Queeney went upstairs. She found her Papa sprawled upon the floor, stockings and shoes removed. Terrified, she asked why he was lying there and received the reply, in slurred tones, ‘Because I choose it … I lie so on purpose.’ She noticed the dark skin of his bare legs, and the opaque quality of his milky toenails; he has the feet of a savage, she thought, and attempted to pull him upright.
‘Leave me be,’ he ordered, and placing one trembling hand to his livid lips blew her a kiss. She ran downstairs, emitting small screams.
Pepys was sent for, but could do nothing; it was too late. The dying man was lifted on to his bed, still murmuring that there was nothing to fuss about. Soon after he suffered a rupture of the lungs. Johnson held his hand and wiped the bloody froth from his mouth. On the morning of April 4th, as a rosy dawn leaked above the chimneys in the Square, Thrale died. He uttered no last words, merely let forth a prolonged expulsion of wind.
Johnson had never thought himself capable of self-deception. Hadn’t most of the miseries of his life arisen from too close a scrutiny of actualities? Yet, upon the death of Henry Thrale he had every expectation that his friendship with his dear mistress would continue as before. Were they not so joined by affection and past experience, so in accord one with the other that the lift of an eyebrow or the droop of a lip rendered words unnecessary? He was not alone in making such an assumption. Indeed, Thrale had scarce grown cold before the gossip columns of the Herald hinted at the likely union between his widow and a certain lexicographer and poet. He did not tell anyone that he had read this scandalous tittle-tattle, nor did he care to acknowledge the vibrant leap of his heart on the reading of it. Once, at night, perusing a letter recently sent him by Mrs Thrale, her signature dissolved away and in its place he read, I remain, Faithful & Obliged, H. L. Johnson. Such a displacement of names caused him considerable agitation, and he flung the letter from him. The mourning period for Henry Thrale had scarce begun – it was not seemly to dwell on such an alteration of circumstances. Later he persuaded himself he had been thinking of dearest Tetty.
As an executor of her husband’s will, he was of great service to Mrs Thrale, who turned to him for advice and support, and although he sincerely mourned the loss of his Master – the continuity of being is lacerated – he took pleasure in dealing with the practical details concerning the future of the Brewery; it freed him from the drudgery and solitude of writing. Thrale’s five surviving children being but daughters, and Mrs Thrale loath to burden herself with the business, it was decided it should be sold. Mr Barclay, the Quaker banker, having made a substantial offer – it was agreed his nephew and the estimable Perkins would be in joint charge – the transaction was concluded with satisfaction to both sides.
Thereafter, life continued as of old, Johnson spending the better portion of his existence at Streatham Park and, in between, making his forays to Ashbourne, Oxford, Lichfield and Bolt Court. Mrs Thrale had now moved to a house in Harley Street, where, as always, a room had been allocated for his use.
And yet circumstances were not quite as before. Several times she had gone against his wishes in the matter of expenditure and once, at dinner, when he ventured the opinion that the sauce accompanying the goose was not as flavoursome as at Mrs Langton’s, she had rebuked him in the harshest of terms, and in front of company. Some few days later, at Streatham, when he had ordered the carriage to be brought to the door, she had told him it was not convenient, as she would require the use of it herself later in the afternoon. As there were two carriages in the stables, he took this to be a sign that he was no longer of first importance. On seeking the opinion of Queeney and Fanny Burney, they assured him he was wrong in thinking so, but he detected a certain evasiveness in both.
He was poorly with stomach pains when he visited Lichfield and it did not help that Miss Porter also was broken in health. Worse, she was now very deaf, and it wore him out having to bellow into her ear. Such was his state of dejection that at last he allowed himself to express in words a fear long left unspoken. Hand unsteady, he wrote to Mrs Thrale – Do not neglect me, or relinquish me. Nobody will ever love you better or honour you more.
On his return, Mrs Thrale noticed a deterioration. She told Queeney that she wondered if he had not suffered a paralytic stroke; there was some drawing down of his mouth on one side and certain words were pronounced strangely.
‘That of Italy, perhaps,’ said the girl coldly, for Mamma was thinking of going there on an extended tour, Mr Piozzi serving as guide.
Sir Joshua also perceived a change in Johnson, not least in his outbursts of temper. As he explained to his sister, Frances, though his irascibility was nothing new, indeed an essential part of the man, he had always gone out of his way to ask pardon of those he gored in argument, particularly if they were inferior in intellect – but no long
er. It was in his studio that Samuel had all but reduced James Boswell to tears. The conversation was of Bennet Langton, who through his extravagances at the card tables was now in serious debt and in danger of losing his property. Boswell said that, to save him, all his friends should call at his house and quarrel with him so fiercely that he would run from London and its temptations, to which Samuel savagely retorted, ‘It would need but one caller, you, Sir, for if your company does not drive him out of his house, nothing will.’ Though Boswell was undoubtedly a fool, he was sincerely fond of Johnson and it was not nice to see him treated so roughly.
Mrs Thrale came to a decision. It had become clear to her that Johnson believed he would reside with her for ever. While Henry had lived, he had conducted himself differently, for he was in awe of his benefactor. The Brewer removed, he had more and more taken to behaving as though he was her Lord and Master. As for her, what with his many illnesses and slovenly ways, she feared she was beginning to regard him much as one would an old and troublesome dog: smelly, wheezing, and constantly under one’s feet. Besides, he shambled in the way of her future happiness. Something had to be done.
Searching him out in the summerhouse one afternoon, she announced she was letting Streatham Park to Lord Shelbourne for a period of three years. She intended; she told him, to retire in the autumn to Brighton and then perhaps journey abroad with her girls. It was for the good of Queeney, who had expressed a wish to travel. He must come too – to Brighton, that is.
He appeared to take it quite well, but then, he did not know what other changes she had in mind. When she left him, doves flew above her head.
On that dreaded last day at Streatham, Johnson rose from his bed far earlier than was his usual hour. His books had already been parcelled up and dispatched, but his desk was to remain, as was his chair, his bed and the little round table at its side. He trailed his fingers along the empty shelves and the surface of his desk in a final caress of farewell. Outside the window crows perched on the black branches of the winter trees. He gazed at the grey and sombre landscape and found it fitting, for it mirrored the desolation in his heart.
According to Queeney Page 19
