The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay Volume I Part 54

I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind."

Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I had heard of her writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton "though those," I continued, "could never possibly, I should think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature."

"Doubtless," said he; "but there is nothing so little comprehended among mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be but a part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools--but there must be tools for it to use: a man who has spent all his life in this room will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next."

"Certainly, sir; yet there is such a thing as invention. Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban."

"No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a monster. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an a.s.s's head or an elephant's tusk will make her monstrous. Suppose you show me a man who is a very expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a carpenter--but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon; he who has no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it, overturned, and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself before it was overturned--standing still, and moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty; but both must see the waggon, to think of it at all."

He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakspeare, with as much fire, spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him. How delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor and infirm machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.

Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but, most kindly pressing both my hands,--

"Be not," he said, in a voice of even tenderness, "be not longer in coming again for my letting you go now."

I a.s.sured him I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most energetic, said,--

"Remember me in your prayers!"

I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him. Great, good, and excellent that he is, how short a time will he be our boast! Ah, my dear Susy, I see he is going! This winter will never conduct him to a more genial season here! Elsewhere, who shall hope a fairer? I wish I had bid him pray for me, but it seemed to me presumptuous.

DR. JOHNSON DYING. HIS DEATH.

_Wednesday, Dec. 8._--At night my father brought us the most dismal tidings of dear Dr. Johnson. Dr. Warren had seen him, and told him to take what opium he pleased! He had thanked and taken leave of all his physicians. Alas!--I shall lose him, and he will take no leave of me![184] My father was deeply depressed; he has himself tried in vain for admission this week. Yet some people see him--the Hooles, Mr.

Sastres, Mr. Langton;--but then they must be in the house, watching for one moment, whole hours. I hear from every one he is now perfectly resigned to his approaching fate, and no longer in terror of death. I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks himself now of the change his mind has undergone, from its dark horror--and says--"He feels the irradiation of hope," Good, and pious, and excellent Christian--who shall feel it if not he?

_Dec. 11._--We had a party to dinner, by long appointment, for which, indeed, none of us were well disposed, the apprehension of hearing news only of death being hard upon us all. The party was, Dr. Rose, Dr.

Gillies, Dr. Garthsh.o.r.e, and Charles.

The day could not be well--but mark the night.

My father, in the morning, saw this first of men! I had not his account till bed-time; he feared over-exciting me. He would not, he said, but have seen him for worlds! He happened to be better, and admitted him. He was up, and very composed. He took his hand very kindly, asked after all his family, and then, in particular, how f.a.n.n.y did? "I hope," he said, "f.a.n.n.y did not take it amiss that I did not see her? I was very bad!"

Amiss!--what a Word! Oh that I had been present to have answered it!

My father stayed, I suppose, half an hour, and then was coming away. He again took his hand, and encouraged him to come again to him; and when he was taking leave, said--"Tell f.a.n.n.y to pray for me!"

Ah! dear Dr. Johnson! might I but have your prayers! After which, still grasping his hand, he made a prayer for himself,--the most fervent, pious, humble, eloquent, and touching, my father says, that ever was composed. Oh, would I had heard it! He ended it with Amen! in which my father joined, and was echoed by all present. And again, when my father was leaving him, he brightened up, something of his arch look returned, and he said--"I think I shall throw the ball at f.a.n.n.y yet!"

Little more pa.s.sed ere my father came away, decided, most tenderly, not to tell me this till our party was done.

This most earnestly increased my desire to see him; this kind and frequent mention of me melted me into double sorrow and regret. I would give the world I had but gone to him that day! It was, however, impossible, and the day was over before I knew he had said what I look upon as a call to me. This morning,[185] after church time, I went.

Frank[186] said he was very ill, and saw n.o.body; I told him I had understood by my father the day before that he meant to see me. He then let me in. I went into his room up stairs; he was in his bedroom. I saw it crowded, and ran hastily down. Frank told me his master had refused seeing even Mr. Langton. I told him merely to say I had called, but by no means to press my admission. His own feelings were all that should be consulted; his tenderness, I knew, would be equal, whether he was able to see me or not.

I went into the parlour, preferring being alone in the cold, to any company with a fire. Here I waited long, here and upon the stairs, which I ascended and descended to meet again with Frank, and make inquiries; but I met him not. At last, upon Dr. Johnson's ringing his bell, I saw Frank enter his room, and Mr. Langton follow. "Who's that?" I heard him say; they answered, "Mr. Langton," and I found he did not return.

Soon after, all the rest went away but a Mrs. Davis, a good sort of woman, whom this truly charitable soul had sent for to take a dinner at his house. I then went and waited with her by the fire; it was, however, between three and four o'clock before I got any answer. Mr. Langton then came himself. He could not look at me, and I turned away from him. Mrs.

Davis asked how the doctor was? "Going on to death very fast!" was his mournful answer. "Has he taken," said she, "anything?" "Nothing at all!

We carried him some bread and milk--he refused it, and said--'The less the better.'" She asked more questions, by which I found his faculties were perfect, his mind composed, and his dissolution was quick drawing on....

I could not immediately go on, and it is now long since I have written at all; but I will go back to this afflicting theme, which I can now better bear.

Mr. Langton was, I believe, a quarter of an hour in the room before I suspected he meant to speak to me, never looking near me. At last he said--

"This poor man, I understand, ma'am, desired yesterday to see you."

"My understanding that, sir, brought me here to-day."

"Poor man! it is a pity he did not know himself better, and that you should have had this trouble."

"Trouble!" cried I; "I would have come a hundred times to see him the hundredth and first!"

"He hopes, now, you will excuse him; he is very sorry not to see you; but he desired me to come and speak to you myself, and tell you he hopes you will excuse him, for he feels himself too weak for such an interview."

I hastily got up, left him my most affectionate respects, and every good wish I could half utter, and ran back to the coach. Ah, my Susy! I have never been to Bolt-court since! I then drove to poor Miss Strange,[187]

to make inquiries of the maid but Andrew ran out to the coach door, and told me all hope was at an end. In short, the next day was fatal to both!--the same day!

_December 20._--This day was the ever-honoured, ever-lamented Dr.

Johnson committed to the earth. Oh, how sad a day to me! My father attended, and so did Charles.[188] I could not keep my eyes dry all day; nor can I now, in the recollecting it; but let me pa.s.s over what to mourn is now so vain!

_December 30._--In the evening I went to Mrs. Chapone. I was late, on account of the coach, and all her party was a.s.sembled. This was the first time I had seen any of them, except Mrs. Ord, since last spring.

I was received with the utmost kindness by them all, but chiefly by Mrs.

Chapone herself, who has really, I believe, a sincere regard for me. I had talk with all of them, except Mrs. Levison, with whom I have merely a courtesying acquaintance. But I was very sad within; the loss of dear Dr. Johnson--the flight of Mrs. Thrale, the death of poor Miss Kitty Cambridge, and of poor, good Miss Strange,--all these home and bosom strokes, which had all struck me since my last meeting this society, were revolving in my mind the whole time I stayed.

Sir Lucas Pepys talked to me a great deal of Mrs. Thrale, and read me a letter from her, which seems to shew her gay and happy. I hope it shews not false colours. No one else named her---but poor Dr. Johnson was discussed repeatedly. How melancholy will all these circ.u.mstances render these once so pleasant meetings.

SECT. 6 (1785-6.)

MISS BURNEY IS FAVOURABLY NOTICED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.

[The pleasantest portion of the following section of the Diary is that which relates to the growing intimacy between f.a.n.n.y and Mrs. Delany. It was a friends.h.i.+p, however, which proved dear to f.a.n.n.y in every sense of the word. On the one hand the mutual affection which subsisted between her and a lady in every way so worthy of her regard, was a source of continual gratification to both; on the other hand it was the immediate cause of an event which may be, without exaggeration, described as the greatest misfortune of f.a.n.n.y's life--her ill-starred appointment at Court. We fully share Macaulay's indignation at this absurd and singularly unsuitable appointment. Its consequences to f.a.n.n.y were almost disastrous; yet the reader will reap the reward of her suffering in perusing the brilliant pages in which her humour and penetration have invested with an interest not its own the frivolous tattle of her commonplace companions. Her account of the royal family is on the whole favourable. The princesses appear to have been really amiable and, so far as etiquette would permit, sensible young women. Of the king and queen we know few things which are more to their credit than that they should have been able to inspire f.a.n.n.y with a regard so obviously sincere.

But even f.a.n.n.y, with all her loyal partiality, could make no more of them than a well-meaning couple, whose conversation never rose above the commonplace. After all, we can hardly help feeling that the whole of this Court Diary, entertaining as it is, would be well exchanged for the description, in f.a.n.n.y's animated style, of a few more dinner-parties at Sir Joshua's, a few more conversations with Edmund Burke.

The burst of exultation with which f.a.n.n.y's friends greeted the unhappy appointment says little for their common sense.

Even Burke, who at least ought to have known better, fell in with the general infatuation, although he, if no one else felt that the honour was not all on f.a.n.n.y's side. He called in St. Martin's-street, and finding Dr. Burney and his daughter from home, left a card on which he had written these words:--"Mr. Burke, to congratulate upon the honour done by the Queen to Miss Burney,--and to herself."