Bruce Alexander: The Color of Death

We argued with him on that point quite heatedly for some minutes; he maintained that the six years that he had spent under the tutelage of Monsieur Desmoulins was not much more than time wasted, and we maintained that it was not. Clarissa said that Frank Barber himself was proof of the efficaciousness of Monsieur Desmoulins s schooling. She declared him as gentlemanly as any fellow one might meet in St. James Park.

Then, did he reveal himself to me as somewhat vain. He preened a bit, striking a pose with his head tilted just slightly toward the light. “Oh,” said he, “do you really think so?”

“Of course we do.”

“Well, thank you for saying so.” His self-conceit, such as it was, seemed quite childishly innocent.

At that, and with a great bustle of authority, a stout-figured woman, well-known to me, appeared of a sudden in the doorway, scowling down at Frank — on the occasions I had encountered her here before, she seemed always to look displeased.

“Mr. Johnson would like to see you, Frank,” said she. “He is now come down for breakfast.” Then, having delivered her summons, she turned about and left as noisily as she had come.

Rising, he waited until he had heard the last of her, and said, at not much above a whisper, “That’s Miss Williams. She doesn’t like me — no, not at all.” He himself started from the room, but turned back to us and declared, “I’ll tell him you’re waiting to see him.”

As soon as we were alone, Clarissa began muttering to me about Francis Barber. She asked who he was and what was his relation to Mr. Johnson. I assured her that I had neither met nor heard of the fellow before. Rather insistently, she rephrased her question, and I rephrased my answer. We might have gone on so for the rest of the morning, had not the subject of our lame discussion swiftly returned and bade us come along with him that we might see Mr. Johnson. Following obediently, we were conducted down a short hall to a room just off the kitchen where I had met Johnson at breakfast on one previous occasion. Frank introduced us, and, with a cheerful goodbye to all, took his leave.

Mr. Johnson looked from me to Clarissa and back again to me. “Well,” said he, “you, young sir, have been here before. We are somewhat acquainted, and I understand there is a letter for me from Sir John Fielding, but is it of such heavy matter that it took two of you to carry it?”

Clarissa, never at a loss for words, spoke up fearlessly as ever: “By no means, sir. I came along that I might meet you and gaze upon your face.”

“If that was your purpose, child, you must be sorely disappointed,” said he in response. “This face of mine frightens some — but gives others cause for merriment.” He took a prodigious gulp of tea and smiled upon her.

“We have things in common,” said she.

“Oh? Tell me then, by all means.”

“Well, we are both natives of Lichfield.”

“And we have proven ourselves wiser than its entire population by leaving the place when we could.”

“You are the son of a bookseller,” said she, “and I am the granddaughter of one. My mother did often tend the shop for him.”

“What was the name of the shop?”

“Gladdens. Perhaps you remember it?”

“I thought I might — but no. It has been many years since I left.” He seemed to be attempting a polite withdrawal from his conversation with her.

But Clarissa, not in the least mindful of this, pressed on with what she had so boldly begun. “Finally,” said she, “we have in common the vocation of literature.”

He looked at her slyly. “Ah, could one so young as you be an author?”

“Not yet, but I am preparing myself for a career similar to your own.”

“Well, in that case, I have two bits of advice for you. First, do not neglect your Latin, for there is nothing quite so good for style as familiarity with that language and its grammar. My second piece of advice is more practical: If you are truly serious about writing, then you must choose a pen name of the masculine sort, for as a female you will greatly limit your chances of acceptance — by editors as well as by the general public.”

She found this quite unacceptable. “There I must disagree with you,” she began.

Yet she never finished, for Mr. Johnson turned from Clarissa to me, chastising her by ignoring her obviously and completely. “Now,” he said rather pointedly to me (and not to Clarissa), “what of this letter from Sir John? I do hope he is not communicating to me in his official capacity.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir,” said I, as Clarissa at last fell silent. “It is naught but an invitation.”

Again that sly look from him. “Are you then in the habit of reading the missives you deliver?”

I produced the letter in question and handed it to him. He wiped his hands thoroughly on his napkin, preparing to read it.

“No sir, I am not in the habit of reading them. I am, however, in the habit of taking them in dictation.”

He chuckled approvingly at my response and pulled open the letter at the seal. So poor was Johnson’s eyesight that he was forced to hold whatever he wished to read at no more than three inches from his face. Thus it was that he perused the contents of the letter. I had seen all this before and was not in the least surprised, but when I glanced over at Clarissa, I noted the look of consternation upon her face. I feared in that instant she might make some unwanted exclamation of sympathy, but, catching her eye, I shook my head, and she kept silent.

“Well and good/’ said Mr. Johnson as he put down the letter. “I should be happy to come at the date and hour which he has specified. Ten days hence — that should give me time and opportunity to do any rearranging that need be done.” Then did he pause, or perhaps hesitate, as if taking a moment to reach a decision. “You do not have an invitation for that fellow Bos well, do you?”

“Nooo,” said I, “but one might be written for him if you wished it so.

“On the contrary,” said he, “I would not wish it so. As it happens, he is down from Edinburgh, and he manages to beg invitations to every dinner to which I’m invited. It seems that no matter where I go he is there, asking questions, drawing me out on every conceivable question. It is most annoying. Do ask Sir John not to invite the fellow, will you?”

I gave a proper little bow. “Very good, sir.”

“Shall I write out a reply to Sir John’s letter?”

“Oh no, Mr. Johnson, I shall convey your response to him.” I paused but a moment. “And so, with your permission, we shall take our leave of you.”

“Good day to you, young sir. And to you, young lady,” said he to Clarissa, “I shall repeat my advice. First, work at your Latin, and second, adopt a male pen name.”

Would she insist on pressing her argument? I turned and saw her performing a careful curtsey. Reassured, I took her arm and guided her from the breakfast room and down the hall to the door. It was not Frank Barber but Miss Williams who was there to see us out. That she did with a curt “good day,” pausing not an instant to wave us out to Fleet Street.

“I went too far, didn’t I?” The words were out of Clarissa’s mouth the moment that the door slammed shut behind us.

“Well …” Was I to tell her the truth? Was I to say that she had embarrassed me, irritated Mr. Johnson, and disgraced herself — and managed it all with just a minute or two of idle talk? No, I could hardly say that, could I? And so all I said was: “I think perhaps you failed to keep in mind who it was you were speaking to.”

“I think you’re right. Oh, Jeremy, what am I to do? To have the ear of Mr. Johnson and then simply to prattle on about what I had in common with him — as if he cared for a moment — and then to try to engage him in argument on the question of a pen name. What could I have been thinking? Samuel Johnson, after all!”