According to Queeney Read online

  Samuel had urged her to be charitable. The pernicious effects of education, he explained, namely that the world had a great deal to offer, an expectation taken from fiction rather than fact, had left Mrs Williams under the delusion she could ride the rainbow. Mrs Desmoulins had protested she was talking of wax rather than the colours of the spectrum. In vain: he and Mrs Williams were two of a kind, both dazzled by words.

  That night, returning from his customary visit to the Brewery, he’d raised a storm over some remark she herself had made. To the best of her recollection she had been trying to still a quarrel between Mrs Williams and Frank, and had simply observed that a desire for happiness was human. In this she had blundered.

  ‘Happiness’, he’d bawled, ‘resides in self-reliance. A man should never depend with certainty on anyone but himself.’ In an aside, for he was always scrupulous in regard to sources, he acknowledged he was paraphrasing Aristotle. Crushed, it had none the less occurred to her how curious it was that, in order to express themselves, great men constantly relied on the thoughts of those long dead. He’d said other things as well, wounding things, but she’d fancied they were directed at Frank and Mrs Williams rather than herself.

  The next morning he’d risen early, which was a bad sign, he being awake and it not yet noon. None of them had slept well, for he had shattered the early hours with a persistent hammering. Frank, impudently entering his room, had found him engaged in carpentry. Though worn out, Mrs Williams agreed it was fortunate he hadn’t started on one of his electrical experiments, for then they might have found him crackling in his bed.

  They heard him striding backwards and forwards all day, but he didn’t appear, not even for his rolls and butter. Mrs Williams said he hadn’t yet recovered from his recent labours in putting Shakespeare to rights.

  Then, later that afternoon, she’d remembered they were approaching an anniversary of Tetty’s death, and indeed, that very evening, interrupted by groans, a recitation of prayers broke out in the room above the parlour. Mrs Williams winced at this audible show of suffering and stuffed her fingers in her ears. Mrs Desmoulins felt impatience, Tetty having been gone a good ten years, but held her tongue and endured. In her opinion, Tetty’s demise had been a merciful release rather than a matter for regret; she had been tired of life and fuddled towards the end, and he who now groaned so loudly had been shockingly absent during her fading.

  Since that display of grief, if such it was, he had kept to his room; nor would he see anyone, not even Mr Murphy or Mr Reynolds, whom he loved and in whose house he had always been welcome. Once, Mr Hawkins had called and, resolutely mounting the stairs, thumped on the door with his stick and demanded to be let in, at which Samuel, overheard by Mrs Williams, had cried out, ‘Etiam oblivisci quid sis, interdum expedit.’ Mrs Desmoulins had no idea of what this might mean, but had observed Hawkins come down quite pale and depart without a word.

  As for Mr Thrale, he had sent several notes, all left unread. There had been a break in the friendship some time past, when Samuel, invited to their summer residence in Brighthelmstone, had arrived to find the house shut up and its occupant returned to town, but Mrs Williams held this lapse had been forgiven following Mr Thrale’s explanation that he’d hastened back to London upon a sudden decision to stand for Parliament.

  Bird droppings splattering the garden bench, Mrs Desmoulins went back into the house and loitered on the landing outside Samuel’s room. Suddenly, too abruptly for her to hide, his door opened and he thrust out his chamber pot. He was dressed, though without shoes and stockings, and she noticed the angry redness of his feet. He looked her full in the face, yet he didn’t see her. The sight of his stubbled cheeks, brow furrowed and eyes circled with darkness, filled her with terror. He retreated in an instant; the thud of the bolt as he secured his door echoed throughout the house.

  She ran downstairs, calling out for Mrs Williams. It no longer mattered who had the greatest influence, who was deemed closest. Mrs Williams was sat half-asleep in her chair by the parlour fire.

  ‘You must go to him,’ Mrs Desmoulins shouted. ‘He is not himself.’

  ‘He has often been so,’ Mrs Williams retorted, ‘but he always returns. A woman’s pleadings at this juncture will only add to his anxiety.’ Her round face remained placid; she was so fair in colouring she had no eyebrows to raise.

  It struck Mrs Desmoulins how useless learning was in times of crisis; Mrs Williams knew French and Italian and scribbled poetry, yet failed to recognise madness. ‘He is not anxious,’ she screamed. ‘He is out of his mind.’

  ‘It is not our function to interfere,’ pronounced Mrs Williams and closed her eyes, though they saw nothing when open.

  Mrs Desmoulins scurried frantically up and down the passage, wringing her hands and keening. As she confided later to Levet, a man she did not usually address, she had been tormented by a dreadful vision in which Samuel wrestled with the Devil. ‘If’, she said, ‘Mr Delap hadn’t chosen to call at that particular moment, we might have lost him for ever.’

  Mr Delap, arriving so opportunely, listened to her hysterical outpourings and was wary of intruding. He said Mr Johnson had always been subject to hypochondria and no man liked to be seen at a disadvantage. He spoke to her bosom rather than her face, but then Samuel had the same habit. Mrs Desmoulins pleaded with him; she went so far as to bar his way as he attempted to leave. Reluctantly he ascended the stairs.

  To her astonishment, no sooner had he knocked than she heard the bolt being drawn. The door opened and remained so, but for some time the voices scarcely rose above a buzz and she could make nothing of the exchange. All at once Samuel spoke up, though in a manner so disturbed and with such a gabbling of words that sense was lost. Above his wild utterances his companion could be heard entreating him to be calm. Then Samuel shouted out, ‘By Heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly that bids me to be of comfort any more,’ and moments later, loudly and with great solemnity, Mr Delap began to declaim the Lord’s Prayer – at which Samuel mercifully fell silent.

  Mrs Desmoulins, crouching by the banisters, joined in the recitation, to be interrupted during her whispering of Give us this day our daily bread by a rapping at the street door. Almost immediately Frank ushered into the hall a tall man with a florid complexion and a small, pale woman, whose eyes glittered. Awake at last, Mrs Williams came out from the parlour and greeted Mrs Thrale by name.

  There followed a most distressing scene, witnessed by all. Mr Delap appeared at the head of the stairs, followed by Samuel, who cried out pitifully and repeatedly. There was nothing human in the sounds he made. Mrs Desmoulins was reminded of the chained and tormented bear tethered in the square on market days in Lichfield – and on the instant, the sufferer dropped to his knees and, bear-like, swung his head from side to side.

  Appalled, Mr Delap tried to drag him upright, but the distraught man was too heavy; he crouched even lower and, clutching Mr Delap about the legs, began to entreat God to help him. ‘Merciful Lord,’ he cried, ‘grant me the continued use of my understanding.’ Below, the stricken watchers stood as though turned to stone.

  Mr Delap, finding himself under scrutiny, shook free as best he could and hurried down the stairs. His white stockings had been pulled from his breeches and lay in folds about his ankles.

  Lurching upright, Samuel lumbered in pursuit. Unaware of those others who stepped backwards at his awful approach, he reached out and caught Delap by the coattails; again he sank to his knees, again he beseeched God to save him from a leaving of his senses. Mrs Desmoulins was not alone in fearing it was possibly too late.

  And now began a demented outpouring of self-condemnation, a listing of sins accompanied by such a savage beating of the breast as to shake his very frame. The terrible emotion in his voice, the fearful despair in his eyes as he shouted aloud this litany of misdemeanours, was too much for Mr Thrale; stepping forward, he clapped his hand over Samuel’s mouth. Mr Delap, hindered by his fallen stockings, made his escape and hobb
led out into the Court.

  Mr Thrale departed soon after, either from weight of business or from delicacy. Mrs Williams said it was the latter; no honest man cared to gawp at the derangement of a friend. Before he went he urged his wife to carry Samuel to Streatham, where he might have her full attention and be away from the strains of city life.

  Mrs Williams busied herself making up a small bundle of clothing; there was nothing beyond a nightshirt and a Sunday coat with candle grease hardened on the buttonholes. Flustered, she excused the lack of clean linen, explaining Samuel had locked himself in his room for so long she hadn’t been able to bring out things to be washed.

  Mrs Thrale said it was of no importance, that garments quite suitable for use had been left behind at Streatham by numerous guests, among them Mr Langton, who, though thin to the point of emaciation, was not much above Mr Johnson in height.

  While these domestic arrangements were being completed, the sick man sat in the parlour, watched over by Frank. He now appeared composed and wore a somewhat bashful look. Studying his swollen toes, he wriggled them, like a child paddling in sea water, and chuckled. Mrs Williams went up to fetch his discarded stockings, but found them much holed.

  When all was ready, Mrs Thrale’s coachman was sent for to assist him into the alleyway; he went barefoot and didn’t look back. At the last minute Mrs Williams remembered his wig and sent Frank running.

  Mr Levet came home early that evening, sober. Mrs Williams and Mrs Desmoulins vied with each other in giving an account of the happenings of the afternoon. Mrs Williams described how she had been busy dusting the breakfast room when voices from overhead disturbed her. ‘I recognised Mr Delap’s voice,’ she said, ‘and thought nothing of it, beyond being surprised, and relieved, that Mr Johnson had admitted him.’

  ‘You were asleep in the parlour,’ Mrs Desmoulins objected. ‘You only showed when Mr Thrale arrived.’

  ‘I could scarcely have slept,’ countered Mrs Williams, ‘considering the noise made by yourself.’

  ‘I was on the way to my room’, Mrs Desmoulins said, ‘when Mr Johnson came out on to the landing. He cried out, “I am in torment. You alone can help me.” At that moment Frank let in Mr Delap. It was only natural I should give way, he being a man of the Church.’

  ‘Natural indeed,’ agreed Mrs Williams, and smiled without humour.

  ‘If he hadn’t come,’ continued Mrs Desmoulins, ‘the Devil would have conquered.’

  She proceeded to describe how she had crouched on the stairs and accompanied Mr Delap in the reciting of the Lord’s Prayer, and how, in the middle of the line Give us this day our daily bread, the Thrales had called – here she knocked on the table with her fist, causing Mrs Williams some alarm.

  ‘A providential interruption,’ Mr Levet remarked, ‘for Sam last ate on Tuesday.’

  Before retiring, Mrs Desmoulins crept into the empty chamber. The bed was rumpled and a squeezed-out orange sat on the pillow. On the table by the window, arranged along the margin of an open book, lay curls of peel cut into segments; she put a piece in the pocket of her gown, for comfort. Climbing the stairs she spied the cat, mewling on the second landing. She kicked out, from jealousy, not malice; often the animal, seeing Samuel immersed in his books, leapt on his lap and purred away the hours. Soundlessly, the cat fled higher. I live, thought Mrs Desmoulins, among people unworthy of my companionship.

  A tree grew close to the window of her garret room. When the wind whipped its branches against the glass she fancied its scrapings echoed her own internal scourging. Lacerated both within and without, she sank into sleep.

  Almost at once she felt his arm across her shoulder, one brown hand pressed against her nightcap so that she lay imprisoned on his breast. He said little that was intelligible, yet his chucklings and gruntings were proof of his regard. He was clumsy in his fondlings, but what did she care? She breathed in the bitter-sweet odour of his skin and thought her heartbeats would wake the household.

  And then she woke to the small hour chiming of the clock of St Bridget’s – a dismal awakening, for now he lay under another roof and all those tumblings of years gone by were but the stuff of dreams.

  To Miss Laetitia Hawkins,

  2 Sion Row,

  Twickenham

  Sept. 21st, 1807

  Dear Miss Hawkins,

  Your kind letter arrived on the 18th of the month, a birth date which, though he preceded my entry into the world by more than fifty years, you suppose – through no fault of your own – that I share with Dr Johnson. To the best of my belief, I was born on the 17th day of September, it being my mother’s later conceit to pin my arrival to the more auspicious date.

  Yes, I do indeed recall the supper given by your father, Sir John, to celebrate the Doctor’s 65th year. It was held, if I remember, three days early as my father and Mr Baretti had planned a visit to Paris on the 16th. You and I were much frowned upon for the unseemly giggles that burst forth at the sight of Dr Johnson dropping to his knees the better to examine Miss Reynolds’ new shoes. That same evening I fell into a sulk provoked by a frank observation made by your good self. Admiring our childish reflections in the hall mirror, you declared my face handsome but ‘chubby’. The years fly by, but some events – vanity, all is vanity – remain engraved on the mind.

  Your present intention of putting pen to paper regarding the Johnsonian Circle is one worthy of success, yet I fear I can be of little help. I was not a year old when Dr Johnson first came to dine at the Brewery in Deadman’s Place and scarce a twelve-month older when my father afforded him sanctuary at Streatham Park. Though reluctant to answer questions of a speculative nature – I have no wish to revive memories which, owing to circumstances, arouse in my breast none but melancholy thoughts – I will do my best to reply to your more factual queries.

  The cabinet you mention is in the possession of my mother, Mrs Piozzi, as is the globe bought by Dr Johnson to instruct me in Geography. There is a scribble in the region of the Americas executed by my brother Harry, for which my mother whipped him cruelly. Dr Johnson was away at the time, but upon hearing of the punishment said it was not well done. Mr Baretti, being present, was bolder. I recall he seized the rod from the nursery shelf and stamped it underfoot.

  Though Mr Boswell and Mrs Piozzi have frequently asserted that the pet name of Queeney was given me by Dr Johnson, it is my belief that it was my dear father who first called me so. First I was his Queen Esther, then his Hetty, then his Queeney, the change taking place in about my third year.

  The dog seated in front of my Grandmother Salusbury in the painting by Zoffany was called Belle, on account of her beauty, though she was stout and by temperament irritable. It was she who committed the offence of devouring the Doctor’s buttered toast while he was engaged in slurping his tea.

  The titles of the books you refer to, also in the keeping of my mother, are as follows – the Poems of Metastasio in six volumes, the Comedies of Terence, a Latin Grammar and a Virgil. As to Mr Baretti’s Dialogues, it did indeed commence with an eight-page dedication to myself, the concluding sentences later rendered into English verse by Dr Johnson. Modesty prevents me from repeating the lines in full, sufficient to say it began, Long may live our charming Hetty … In her Anecdotes, Mrs Piozzi quotes the verse while omitting any reference to its origin. As we bear the same name, this has led many to suppose the dedication was intended for herself.

  Queeney’s Covenant is in my possession, but I would not wish it to appear in print. It is in the form of a promise dictated by Dr Johnson, that I would come down promptly every day to be taught Italian … I will be in the very best of humour, nor will I look about me with a vacant and weary expression, etc., etc. It was signed by myself and witnessed by Dr Johnson.

  My sister Mrs Mostyn is well in health though alarmed at the prospect of my mother moving closer. It had been hoped she would be living at Streatham, but news has come that she is thinking of letting. Having her as a near neighbour would be irksome in
deed. As somebody has remarked most truly, a fair proportion of the unhappiness of life consists in recollections of past, or dread of future, miseries.

  Adieu, my dear Miss Hawkins,

  Sincerely yours,

  H. M. Thrale

  1766

  REÍNTEGRATE v.a. (reinteger, Fr. and integer, Lat. It should perhaps be written redintegrate)

  To renew with regard to any ſtate or quality; to repair; to reftore

  The falling from a diſcord to a concord hath an agreement with the affections, which are reintegrated to the better after some diſlikes.

  (Bacon’s Nat. Hiſt.)

  Mrs Thrale rose early, on Queeney’s account, and spied from her bedroom window a lawn sparkling under dew. The dogs, loosed from their chains, scudded across the grass, spattering diamonds.

  When she went to the nursery Queeney was still sleeping. Her mouth lay open and sweat glistened upon the bridge of her nose. Old Nurse said the child’s breath still smelt sour. She had passed stools twice in the night, though without discomfort.

  ‘And the pustules on her chest?’ enquired Mrs Thrale.

  ‘Now scabby,’ Old Nurse said, though her eyesight could not be relied upon.

  Mrs Thrale examined the child’s arm and was relieved to find it less swollen than before. Queeney had jerked in shock when Dr Sutton had made the puncture and the resulting scratch had turned angry.

  The haze had lifted from the beech trees in the Park when Mrs Thrale came down to breakfast. The rays of the sun caught the scarlet hangings on the second landing and splashed the stairs with crimson.

  It was noticeable that both her husband and her mother had fallen under the influence of clear skies. Mrs Salusbury announced her intention of delaying her return to town, and Mr Thrale, having first visited the kitchens to give final instructions to the cooks as to the advancement of the dinner planned for later in the day, was moved to part from his wife with less reserve than usual.