The essays of virginia w.., p.13
The Essays of Virginia Woolf, Volume 5, page 13
Thus Greville treated the Burneys as his equals and came to their house, though his visits were often interrupted by the violent quarrels which he managed to pick even with the amiable Dr Burney himself. Indeed, as time went on there was nobody with whom Greville did not quarrel. He had lost heavily at the gambling tables. His prestige in society was sunk. His habits were driving his family from him. Even his wife, by nature gentle and conciliatory, though excessive thinness made her seem fitted to sit for a portrait ‘of a penetrating, puissant and sarcastic fairy queen,’ was wearied by his infidelities. Inspired by them she had suddenly produced that famous ‘Ode to Indifference’ ‘which has passed into every collection of fugitive pieces in the English language’ and (it is Mme. D’Arblay who speaks) ‘twined around her brow a garland of wide-spreading and unfading fragrance.’fn27 Her fame, it may be, was another thorn in her husband’s side; for he was, too, an author. He, himself, had produced a volume of ‘Maxims and Characters’; and having ‘waited for fame with dignity rather than anxiety because with expectation unclogged with doubt,’fn28 was beginning perhaps to become a little impatient. Fame held aloof. Meanwhile, he was fond of the society of clever people, and it was largely at his desire that the famous party in St Martins Street met together that very cold night.
Part II
In those days when London was so small, it was easy, or easier than now, for people to stand out on an eminence which they scarcely struggled to keep but enjoyed by unanimous consent. Everybody knew and remembered when they saw her that Mrs Greville had written an ‘Ode to Indifference;’ everybody knew that Mr Bruce had travelled in Abyssinia; so, too, everybody knew that there was a house at Streatham presided over by a lady called Mrs Thrale. Without troubling to write an ode, without hazarding her life among savages, without possessing either high rank or vast wealth, Mrs Thrale was a celebrity. By the exercise of powers difficult to define, for to feel them one must have sat at table and noticed a thousand audacities and deftnesses and skilful combinations which die with the moment, Mrs Thrale had the reputation of a great hostess. Her fame spread far beyond her house. People who had never seen her discussed her. People wanted to know what she was like; whether she was really so witty and so well read; whether it was a pose; whether she had a heart; whether she loved her husband the brewer, who seemed a dull dog; why she had married him; whether Dr Johnson was in love with her – what in short was the secret of her power. For power she had – that was indisputable.
Even then perhaps it would have been difficult to say what it was. For she possessed the one quality which can never be named; she enjoyed the one gift which never ceases to excite discussion. Somehow or other she was a personality. The young Burneys, for instance, had never seen Mrs Thrale or been to Streatham, but the stir which she set going round her had reached them in St Martins Street. When their father came back from giving his first music lesson to Miss Thrale at Streatham, they flocked round him to ask for an account of her mother.
Dr Burney was in high good temper – in itself a proof of his hostess’s power – and he replied, not we may be sure as Fanny rendered it, that she was a ‘star of the first constellation of female wits; surpassing rather than equalising the reputation which her extraordinary endowments, and the splendid fortune which made them conspicuous, had blazoned abroad’fn29 – that was written when Fanny’s style was old and tarnished and its leaves were fluttering and falling profusely to the ground; the doctor, we may suppose, answered briskly that he had enjoyed himself hugely; that the lady was a very clever lady; that she had interrupted the lesson all the time; that she had a very sharp tongue, there was no doubt of that; but he would go to the stake that she was a good-hearted woman at bottom.
Many women might have possessed these qualities without being remembered for them. Mrs Thrale possessed besides one that has given her immortality – the power of being the friend of Dr Johnson. Without that addition her life might have fizzled and flamed to extinction, leaving nothing behind it. But the combination of Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale created something as solid, as lasting, as remarkable as a work of art. And this was an achievement that called for much rarer powers on the part of Mrs Thrale than the qualities of a good hostess. When the Thrales first met Johnson he was in a state of profound gloom, crying out such lost and terrible words that Mr Thrale put his hand before his mouth to silence him. Physically, too, he was afflicted with asthma and dropsy; his manners were rough; his habits were gross; his clothes were dirty; his wig was singed; his linen was soiled, and he was the rudest of men. Yet Mrs Thrale carried this monster off with her to Brighton and then domesticated him in her house at Streatham, where he was given a room to himself and where he spent habitually some days in the middle of every week. This might have been, on her part, but the enthusiasm of a curiosity hunter ready to put up with a host of disagreeables for the sake of having at her house the original Dr Johnson whom everybody in England would gladly pay to see. But it is clear that her connoisseurship was of a finer type. She understood – her anecdotes prove it – that Dr Johnson was somehow a rare, an important, an impressive human being whose friendship was more of an honour than a burden. And it was not by any means so easy to know this then as it is now. What one knew then was that Dr Johnson was coming to dinner. Who would be there? One wondered with anxiety. For if it was a Cambridge man there might be an outburst. If it was a Whig there would certainly be a scene. If it was a Scotsman anything might happen. Such were his whims and prejudices. Next, one would have to bethink one, what had one got for dinner? For the food never went uncriticised; but one must not praise it. Were not the young peas charming, Mrs Thrale asked once. And he turned upon her, after gobbling down masses of pork and veal pie with lumps of sugar in it, and snapped, ‘Perhaps they would be so – to a pig.’fn30 And then what would the talk be about, one must have speculated. If it got upon painting or music he was likely to dismiss it with scorn and contempt. Then if a traveller told a tale he was sure to pooh-pooh it. Then if anyone were to express sorrow in his presence it might well draw down a rebuke. ‘When one day I lamented the loss of a cousin killed in America – Prithee, my dear (said he), have done with canting: how would the world be the worse for it, I may ask, if all your relations were at once spitted like larks and roasted for Presto’s supper?’fn31 In short, the meal would be strewn with difficulties; the whole affair might run upon the rocks at any moment.
Had Mrs Thrale been a shallow curiosity hunter, she would have shown him for a season or so and then let him drop. But Mrs Thrale realised even at the moment that one must submit to be snubbed and bullied and irritated and offended by Dr Johnson because – well, what was the force that sent an impudent and arrogant young man like Boswellfn32 slinking back to his chair like a beaten boy when Johnson bade him? Why did she herself sit up till 4 in the morning pouring out tea for him? There was a force in him that awed even a competent woman of the world, that subdued even a thick-skinned, conceited boy. He had a right to scold Mrs Thrale for inhumanity, when she knew that he spent only 70 pounds a year on himself and with the rest of his income supported a houseful of decrepit and ungrateful lodgers. If he gobbled at table and tore the peaches from the wall, he went back punctually to London to see that his wretched inmates had their three good meals over the week end. Moreover, he was a warehouse of knowledge. If the dancing master talked about dancing, Johnson could out-talk him[.] He could keep one amused by the hour with his tales of the underworld, of the topers and scallywags who haunted the Strand and the Temple. He said things casually that one never forgot. But what was perhaps more engaging than all his learning was his love of pleasure, his detestation of the solitary hermit, of the mere bookworm, his passion for life and society. And then, as a woman would, Mrs Thrale loved him for his courage – that he had separated two fierce dogs that were tearing each other to pieces in Mr Beaucler[k]’s sitting room; that he had thrown a man, chair and all, into the pit of a theatre; that, blind and twitching as he was, he rode out with the hounds on Bright[h]elmstone Downs and followed the hunt as if he had been a gay dog instead of a huge, melancholy, old man. Moreover, there was an affinity between them. She drew him out; she made him say what without her he would never have said; indeed, he had confessed to her some painful secret of his youth which she never revealed. Above all, they shared the same passion. Of talk they could neither of them ever have enough.
Thus, Mrs Thrale could always be counted on to produce Dr Johnson; and it was, of course, Dr Johnson whom Mr Greville most particularly wished to meet. At it happened, Dr Burney had renewed his acquaintance with Dr Johnson after many years, when he went to Streatham to give his first music lesson. Dr Johnson had been there ‘wearing his mildest aspect,’fn33 for he remembered Dr Burney with kindness. He remembered a letter that Dr Burney had written to him in praise of the dictionary. He remembered, too, that Dr Burney, having called upon him, years ago, and found him out, had dared to cut some bristles from the hearth broom to send to an admirer.fn34 When he met Dr Burney again at Streatham he had instantly taken a liking to him; soon he was brought by Mrs Thrale to see Dr Burney’s books; it was quite easy, therefore, for Dr Burney to arrange that on a certain night, which seems to have been in the early spring of 1777 or 1778, Mr Greville’s great wish to meet Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale should be gratified.
Nobody could fail to be aware that the meeting of so many marked and distinguished characters might be difficult. Dr Johnson was, of course, notoriously formidable. But the danger was not confined to him. Mr Greville himself was domineering and exacting; his temper had grown worse since his gambling losses had made him of less account in the world of ‘ton.’ Then Mrs Greville was a poetess; it was likely enough that she would prove her right to the laurel by some contest with a lady whose fame was at the moment brighter than her own. Mrs Thrale was good humour itself; still it was likely that she would try for a tilt with Mrs Greville; nor was she wholly dependable, for she had ‘sudden flashes of wit which she left to their own consequences.’fn35 Besides, it was an occasion; everybody felt it to be so; wits would be on the strain; expectation on tiptoe. Dr Burney, with the tact of a man of the world, foresaw these difficulties and took steps to avert them. But there was, one vaguely feels, something a little obtuse about Dr Burney. The eager, kind, busy man, with his head full of music, lacked discrimination. He had not noticed that Dr Johnson, when he visited them the other day and found them at the harpsichord, had withdrawn to the bookcase and browsed upon a volume of the British Encyclopedia till the music was done. He was not aware, in spite of the way in which Mrs Thrale interrupted his lessons, that she did not know ‘a flat from a sharp.’fn36 To his innocent mind music was the universal specific. If there was going to be difficulty, music would solve it. He therefore asked Signor Piozzi to be of the party.
The night arrived. The fire was lit. The chairs were placed. The company arrived. As Dr Burney had foreseen, the awkwardness was great. Things indeed seemed to go wrong from the start. Dr Johnson had come in his worsted wig prepared, evidently, for enjoyment. But after one look at him Mr Greville seemed to decide that there was something formidable about the old man; it would be better not to compete; it would be better to play the fine gentleman and leave it to literature to make the first advances. Murmuring, apparently, something about having the toothache, Mr Greville ‘assumed his most supercilious air of distant superiority and planted himself, immovable as a noble statue, upon the hearth.’fn37 He said nothing. Mrs Greville was longing to distinguish herself, but thought that it was proper for Dr Johnson to begin; she therefore said nothing. Mrs Thrale, who might have been expected to break up the solemnity, felt, it seemed, that the party was not her party and, waiting for the principals there to engage, resolved to say nothing. Mrs Crewe, the Grevilles’ daughter, lovely and vivacious as she was, had come to be entertained and instructed, and therefore very naturally she, too, said nothing. Nobody said anything. Everybody waited. Here was the very moment for which Dr Burney, in his wisdom, had prepared. He spoke to Signor Piozzi and Signor Piozzi at once began to sing. Accompanying himself on the pianoforte, he sang an aria parlante. He sang beautifully. He sang his best. But far from breaking the awkwardness and loosing the tongues, the music increased the difficulty. Nobody spoke. Everybody waited for Dr Johnson to begin. But there was one thing that Dr Johnson never did; he never began. Somebody had always to start a topic before he consented to pursue it or to demolish it. Now he waited in silence to be challenged. Nobody dared. The roulades of Signor Piozzi continued uninterrupted. As he saw his chance of a pleasant evening of conversation diminish Dr Johnson sank into silent abstraction and sat with his back to the piano gazing at the fire. The aria parlante continued uninterrupted. At last the strain became unendurable. At last Mrs Thrale could stand it no longer. It was the attitude of Mr Greville, apparently, that roused her resentment. There he stood on the hearth in front of the fire ‘staring around him at the whole company in curious silence sardonically.’fn38 What right had he, even if he were the descendant of the friend of Sir Philip Sidney, to despise the company and absorb the fire? Her own pride of ancestry suddenly asserted itself. Did not the blood of Adam of Saltsburgfn39 run in her veins? Was it not as blue as that of the Grevilles and far more sparkling? Giving rein to the spirit of recklessness which sometimes bubbled in her, she rose and stole on tiptoe to the pianoforte. Signor Piozzi was still singing and accompanying himself dramatically as he sang. She began a ludicrous mimicry of his gestures – she shrugged her shoulders, she cast up her eyes, she reclined her head on one side just as he did. At this singular display the company began to titter – indeed, it was a scene that was to be described ‘from coterie to coterie throughout London, with comments and sarcasms of endless variety.’fn40 People who saw Mrs Thrale at her mockery that night never forgot that this was the beginning of that criminal affair, the first scene of ‘that most extraordinary drama’fn41 which lost Mrs Thrale the respect of friends and children, which drove her in ignominy from England and scarcely allowed her to show herself in London again. This was the beginning of that most reprehensible, that most unnatural passion for one who was not only a foreigner, but a musician. All this still lay on the laps of the gods. Nobody yet knew of what iniquity the vivacious lady was capable. She was still the respected wife of a wealthy brewer. Happily, Dr Johnson was staring at the fire and saw nothing of the scene at the pianoforte. But Dr Burney put a stop to the laughter instantly. He was shocked that his guest, even if he were a foreigner and a musician, should be ridiculed behind his back, and stealing to Mrs Thrale he whispered kindly, but with authority, that if she had no taste for music herself she should consider the feelings of those who had. Mrs Thrale took the rebuke with admirable sweetness, nodded her acquiescence and returned to her chair. But she had done her part. After that nothing more could be expected from her.
If no one had dared to tackle Dr Johnson in the beginning it was scarcely likely that they would dare now. He had apparently decided that the evening was a failure so far as talk was concerned. If he had not come dressed in his best he might have had a book in his pocket which he could have pulled out and read. As it was, nothing but the resources of his own mind were left him, and these he explored as he sat with his back to the piano, looking the very image of gravity, dignity and composure.
Signor Piozzi had ceased to play. Signor Piozzi indeed, finding nobody to talk to, had fallen asleep. Even Dr Burney by this time must have been aware that music is not an infallible specific; but there was nothing for it now. Since people would not talk, the music must continue. He called upon his daughters to sing a duet. And when that was over, there was nothing to be done but that they must sing another. Signor Piozzi still slept, or still feigned sleep. Dr Johnson explored still further the magnificent resources of his own mind. Mr Greville still stood superciliously upon the hearth rug. And the night was cold.
But it was a grave mistake to suppose because Dr Johnson was apparently lost in thought and certainly almost blind that he was not aware of anything, particularly of anything reprehensible, that was taking place in the room. His ‘starts of vision’fn42 were always astonishing and almost always painful. So it was on the present occasion. He suddenly woke up. He suddenly roused himself. He suddenly uttered the words for which the company had been waiting all the evening.
‘If it were not for depriving the ladies of the fire,’ he said, looking fixedly at Mr Greville, ‘I should like to stand upon the hearth myself!’fn43 The effect of the outburst was prodigious. The Burney children said afterward that it was a comedy. The descendant of the friend of Sir Philip Sidney quailed before the Doctor’s glance. All the blood of all the Brookes rallied itself to overcome the insult. The son of a bookseller should be taught his place. Greville did his best to smile – a faint, scoffing smile. He did his best to stand where he had stood the whole evening. He stood smiling, or trying to smile, for two or perhaps for three minutes more. But when he looked round the room and saw all eyes cast down, all faces twitching with amusement, all sympathies plainly on the side of the bookseller’s son, he could stand there no longer. He glided away, sloping even his proud shoulders, to a chair. But as he went, he rang the bell ‘with force.’fn44 He demanded his carriage.
