MARY. Never mind about quarrels or my husband. We must get Mr. Wilkes. I must have Mr. Wilkes.

  MARQUISE. Why do you want him?

  MARY. Because he can lie, and my husband can’t.

  [She goes into the next room and reappears with WILKES.

  DRAPER. This seems to be a singular situation.

  MARY. Dr. Johnson, may I present Mr. John Wilkes?

  [JOHNSON starts and stares at him; then he bows very slightly and, slowly swinging round, turns an awful face upon BOSWELL.

  WILKES. I have often hoped for this pleasure, Doctor Johnson. I think we know each other by reputation.

  MARY [settling down]. And I hope now you will all have some tea.

  [JOHNSON moves away and sits down very sullenly at the table behind, which is covered with books and pamphlets. He picks one up to read and puts it down in disgust, picks up another and puts it down also.

  WILKES [slipping gracefully towards him]. A cup of tea, Doctor Johnson.

  [JOHNSON grunts, but accepts it.]

  DRAPER. I confess there is a mystery here which I should like, for certain reasons, to clear up. I understood from Mr. Swift that he had never been in Scotland, but had spent all his youth in France.

  MARY. Yes, we were both of us exiles in France you know. That is why we have to ask Mr. Burke for all the news of America. Mr. Burke knows all there is to know about America. He is always making beautiful speeches about it, when he is not denouncing the King’s Friends.

  BURKE. Nay, Madam, I hope I am myself one of the King’s Friends. Which were the friends of King Charles the First, Hyde and Falkland who made him pause and consider, or Laud and Strafford who encouraged him on the road he went?

  BOSWELL [warmly]. At least those who died for him were more friendly than those who killed him.

  MARY. Well, I always thought Charles the First —

  DRAPER. Pardon me, Madam, my question was not about Charles the First.

  WILKES [assiduously]. Dr. Johnson, another cup of tea?

  JOHNSON. Sir, I thank you.

  DRAPER. There seem here to be the elements of one of those ghost stories in which Dr. Johnson is interested. Your bodies were in France, but your souls, if I may say so, seem to have been very much in America. Finally, by a truly Highland flight of the supernatural your wraiths have appeared in the Hebrides.

  SWIFT. Our souls are in America, and we have never disguised it; as every man’s must be in the land of his birth. But you are quite mistaken if you suppose there was anything unusual in professing those sympathies in France. France is overflowing with sympathy for the American Colonies.

  MARQUISE. France is full of republican principles and royal and aristocratic practices. We are so tired of being ladies and gentlemen that we have tried dressing up as shepherds and shepherdesses, and are now so desperate that we even attempt to be human beings.

  WILKES. Another cup, Dr. Johnson?

  JOHNSON. Sir, you are very obliging. But I am aware that I must not impose on you in this fashion. A man whose foible requires such attention from others should learn to provide it for himself. [To MARY.] Madam, since I must not thus monopolise Mr. “Wilkes, may I without offence introduce an attendant of my own for the occasion? [MARY bows assent.] I am obliged, Madam. [To BOSWELL.] Would you do me the favour, sir, to ask Frank into the room for a moment? He is waiting outside. [Exit BOSWELL.]

  MARQUISE [continuing]. France, in fact, is full of Utopia. Our uniforms and liveries and armorial bearing are of centuries ago, when men were barons or vassals. But we are living and thinking and talking centuries hence, when all men shall be free and equal.

  DRAPER. I should still like my question answered.

  MARY. And what is your Utopia, Mr. Burke?

  BURKE. Why, Madam, I have only one objection to Utopia. I have looked through many libraries, but I could never find a history of Utopia. It is the history of nations that interests me.

  DRAPER. It is the history of people that interests me.

  [Re-enter BOSWELL, followed by BLACK

  FRANK, the negro servant of DR. JOHNSON.

  JOHNSON. That is right, Frank. I only wished you to assist in handing the tea-things.

  [WILKES retires and leans elegantly on the back of MARY’S chair.

  MARQUISE. AS to history, Mr. Burke, we have a very grand history in France, and I think it has begun to weigh on us somewhat too heavily; as our coronets do on the few grand occasions when we put them on. I would gladly lose mine.

  BURKE. If your ladyship ever casts away your coronet, I hope I shall be there to pick it up and restore it to you.

  MARQUISE. Oh, I shall not listen; I shall have lost my head, too, by that time. But why should you care about coronets; I thought you were a friend of freedom.

  BURKE. Madam, I confess once more to that vice of the reading of history. As I read history there have been two things that have always trampled upon freedom, a king and a mob. There has been one atmosphere, at once generous and moderate, at once flexible and secure, in which freedom of word and thought could flourish — the atmosphere of a liberal and enlightened gentry. They were nobles who extorted Magna Charta; they were Russells and Cavendishes who effected our Great Revolution. You speak as if a political balance were an obvious and easy thing, as if our constitutional liberties grew on every hedge. I think it requires a blend of many soils, a tradition of many tricks of gardening, before deep in one of our old historic gardens is born a lonely and a lovely flower, and its name is Liberty.

  SWIFT. Sir, I can take you — at least I can tell you where Freedom does grow on every hedge. There is room for it to grow like grass on the great prairies of the west.

  DRAPER. I suppose you observed them as a child?

  SWIFT [ignoring him in a rush of enthusiasm]. America has no history. That is why I believe in America.- Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden had no history, because they were near to God. Americans are going back to God, back to Man, back to the fundamental fact of our humanity. I would rather that all American citizens walked about as naked as Adam and Eve than that they should be loaded with these shields and coronets by which history makes them forget humanity. As men said that at the trumpet of resurrection all should rise equally naked, so at the trumpet of revolution all shall rise equally free.

  BOSWELL [to JOHNSON]. Sir, I can no longer endure hearing these anarchical principles. I must appeal to you to crush them.

  BURKE. Yes, Dr. Johnson. You are far more fitted than I to defend a civilised order against Mr. Swift.

  JOHNSON [after a pause]. Why, Sir, strictly speaking Mr. Swift is right. [They stare at him.] Providence has doubtless created all men for their good and his glory, and in that sense men are created equal and originally created innocent. And though I hold social subordination essential to social felicity, it was never intended that this should involve a denial of the fraternal charity men owe to each other. There are worthy men in every rank and condition, and it is doubtless well to accustom ourselves to association with them. Here is one of them, for example. Frank, would you sit down, please; and perhaps Mr. Swift would pass you a cup of tea.

  [FRANK, with great bewilderment and irresolution, finally sits down on the seat vacated by WILKES. SWIFT involuntarily rises, clutching the back of his chair.

  WILKES. Well, I am damned. Who would have accused Dr. Johnson of a practical joke?

  JOHNSON [to SWIFT]. Nay, Sir, you need not look surprised. Frank is a man, and all men are equal. He is a good man, and most men are not equal to him in that. He is a good friend, and has done all for me while I lived and shall have all I leave when I die.

  SWIFT [resuming his seat]. I confess, Sir, that you caught me out fairly; and that surprise was itself an inconsistency. To tell the truth I was not so much surprised, for the moment, at a servant sitting down as — [He stops.]

  JOHNSON. AS at a black servant, you would say. Sir, as you left Virginia in your childhood, I can but congratulate you on the precocious intelligence with which you absorbed its prejudices.

  [There is a silence. Then JOHNSON claps FRANK on the shoulder in a friendly fashion.] There, that will do, my friend. I am sorry to have embarrassed you for a foolish jest.

  DRAPER. It was far from foolish, Sir, and I think the effect of it rather more than a jest. I fear the time has come when I must speak plainly. It is an unpleasant matter, but I wear the King’s uniform and am occupied in a special manner in his business. And there are suspicions involved here which I cannot be asked to ignore. [To SWIFT abruptly.] Have you any evidence to show that you came from France?

  WILKES [carelessly, leaning on the back of the chair]. Well, that ought to be easy enough. Any of our old Caudebec friends would testify for you. Giraud or Pinson or old Gautière, the wine merchant, or that old fellow at whose estaminet we used to play dominoes. How Madame Colbert would be amused, wouldn’t she, to hear it suggested that you were never in France?

  BURKE [in surprise]. Why, did you know Mr. Swift in France?

  WILKES. Better than I know him here, I fancy. We were both there en garçon, you know; during my own exile and before he went to Belgium and found a wife. [Looking round with an agreeable smile.] Our friend Swift was something of a gay fellow in France in those days, if his wife will allow me to say so.

  DRAPER. And do you mean you could get evidence from this French place? Are there any people who could really testify?

  WILKES. My dear Sir, the table must have held twenty at least — the table d’hôte at the old Trois Étoiles, you know — there must be more than I can remember, but Gamier and the Mayor must still be there, anyhow. It was only in ‘73; the summer and autumn.

  DRAPER. But that was when Dr. Johnson was in the Hebrides, and he says he saw Mr. Swift there.

  WILKES. Dr. Johnson is one of the most farsighted of critics, but, if he will excuse me, one of the most short-sighted of men. Truth, Sir, comes before all; truth is my sole concern in this matter. Dr. Johnson would be the first to agree that my devotion to truth is here a higher duty even than his own favourite virtue of a polished social elegance. And truth compels me to state that I can only clear Dr. Johnson of the charge of wilfully misleading you, by saying that he must be going blind.

  JOHNSON. In the matter of eyes, as of other things, we must all accept with gratitude what Providence has apportioned to us.

  DRAPER. Mr. Boswell is not short-sighted.

  WILKES. Mr. Boswell is blind to everything except Dr. Johnson. The rest of us appear to him as mere shadows forming a sort of grey background.

  DRAPER. Dr. Johnson, this is a serious matter and it is my duty to press it seriously. Do you think it possible that your recognition was an error?

  JOHNSON [rising]. Sir, if you ask me, I must — [Stands ruminating and frowning down at MARY who is making tea.] I must have been mistaken. It would, indeed, be inconceivable that any man should be willing to wallow in so squalid and repulsive a depravity as to invoke the name of truth, as Mr. Wilkes has done, when in the very act of saying what was untrue.

  WILKES. Sir, I thank you for this touching testimony to my honour.

  JOHNSON [still ruminating. And it is the more possible, Sir, that I am mistaken since I have not your own familiarity with the fashions of politics and the high affairs of public life. It would appear almost an impiety to profess to be more virtuous than a Lord Mayor of London. And I am the more reconciled to my ignorance of public life by a habit of finding in private life much that is more essential to human happiness. So long as I see private life pure and constant and sustained by the wiser affections, I shall ask the fewer questions about the names and badges of political faction.

  MARY [looking up at him earnestly]. But it is no use denying, Dr. Johnson, that we are both in theory good republicans.

  JOHNSON. If you present to me such a paradox, Madam, I shall put aside the problem of whether such persons can be called republican; so long as I am satisfied that they can be called good. The domestic virtues may flourish under very peculiar politics; and so long as they remain, even the most perfect and ideal commonwealth will do comparatively little mischief. There is a passage in one of Bishop Sherlock’s sermons on the Duties of Wives which expresses this with great felicity; but the book is somewhat rare; indeed I believe the only copy is in the Bodleian. As I shall be visiting Oxford almost immediately I will give myself the pleasure of copying it out for you. And now Madam, I feel we have encumbered your company too long; I shall return to the town in some six weeks’ time, when I may perhaps have the pleasure of placing my manuscript in your hands.

  MARY. You are very kind, Sir, I hope you will. We shall probably remain in these lodgings.

  JOHNSON [bowing]. Why, Madam, I know the town very well. I shall find you wherever you are.

  [Exit, followed by BOSWELL and BURKE.

  WILKES [strolling forward arm in arm with the somewhat reluctant SWIFT]. By the way you know that girl in Caudebec who poured the jug of cider over you?

  SWIFT [rather shortly]. Yes.

  WILKES. Oh Lud, my dear Sir, do not be sulky about it now. Do not permit the memory of so petty an indignity to disturb you after all these years.

  DRAPER [walking up to him, hat in hand]. Mr. Wilkes, do you stand by the words you have uttered?

  WILKES. Sir, I always stand by my words. I am not a member of the present government. Nor am I a spy in its service.

  DRAPER. It is better than being a spy in the service of the enemy’s government. But it is true I have admission to the government offices; and I am going there to make some enquiries. Madam, your servant. [Exit.]

  WILKES [genially to SWIFT]. You don’t seem very anxious to talk about the girl in Caudebec. The presence of Mrs. Swift, no doubt.

  MARY. You will be relieved of her presence. I have things to attend to. [Goes out at the back.]

  [WILKES, who is still standing arm in arm with SWIFT, waits till an inner door closes, then drops his arm, steps back and draws his sword.

  WILKES. And now, Mr. Swift, after that little interruption, I am quite ready to be killed.

  SWIFT. YOU know I cannot kill you now.

  WILKES. What is the difficulty?

  SWIFT. YOU have just saved my life.

  WILKES. Oh Lud, is there a point of honour about that too? What a complicated etiquette!

  SWIFT. It seems to me very simple. I cannot take away the very life to which I owe my own.

  WILKES. Sir, it is a great relief. Not that I object to fighting; but I very much prefer talking. Under our present highly civilised system of etiquette it seems so very difficult to talk without fighting. But it appears that you and I are in a peculiar and privileged position. Whatever we say to each other, we cannot fight each other. That is what I call real freedom. We are free to talk, and it occurs to me that we might possibly use our freedom to talk sense? Have you any particular objection to my talking a little sense?

  SWIFT. YOU can say what you like, of course.

  WILKES. Then we are in Utopia after all. We have founded the ideal republic. Come, since we cannot meet as duellists, let us really meet as philosophers. Two real philosophers, who can think what they like and say what they think.

  SWIFT. What do you want to say?

  WILKES. First of all, before I put this sword away, oblige by looking at it. [Twirls it in his hand like a toy]. Look at it calmly and, if it be possible, seriously. Suppose I had to walk about at a ladies’ tea-party with a large battle-axe hung on to my breeches. Suppose you had to come from Virginia with a tomahawk pinned to your coat-tails. Would not all the town have laughed at the Choctaw? But what are these but tomahawks, and what are we but Choctaws so long as we make it a point of honour to flourish them?

  SWIFT. YOU are one of those who think that honour would not suffer if duelling were abolished.

  WILKES. Sir, I think we should not suffer if honour were abolished. Perhaps you think I have no more of it to abolish. I am the fox that has lost his tail. But what is civilised man but a monkey who has lost his tail? And what is this fantastic tail that we are always flourishing in each other’s faces, but the jealousy and vanity of a monkey? What is your jealousy but the suspicion of a savage strutting about his wigwam and watching his squaw? Discount my own vices as you will; they do not make so much misery in the world as your virtues do.

  SWIFT. In my country I have been accustomed to a less cynical explanation. It is our virtues that are in revolt and not our vices. It is farmers with the spirit of Cincinnatus, it is peasant women with the soul of Cornelia, who are defying the luxury and corruption of courts and giving a religion to our revolution.

  WILKES. And what is the use of your revolution? What is the good of it if it cannot prevent Cincinnatus from bullying or Cornelia from nagging? What is the good of defying a court of thousands of miles away, if in your own village you cannot prevent Cornelia from driving Cincinnatus to drink or Cincinnatus from frightening Cornelia to death? What is the use of restraining some old fool like King George in the Commonwealth, when you make the same kind of old fool omnipotent in the family?

  SWIFT. But where does all this tend?

  WILKES. Sir, we must have a revolution in the family as well as in the state. The one revolution without the other will make the world more Puritanical and provincial than ever. Dr. Johnson is consistent, for he opposes both revolutions. But you are not consistent; for you are a citizen in the forum and a sultan in the harem.

  SWIFT [after a pause]. There were views somewhat like this in the book Madam de Montmarat lent me; and I confess they were forcibly stated.

  WILKES. My dear Sir, they are everywhere, and they state themselves. Most of what you hear about the direful dissipation and general devilry of myself and my friends only means that we are beginning to say what everybody thinks. Societies have been springing up here and in France; secret societies they call them; but indeed it is a very open secret. It may truly be called a secret de Polichinelle; since it is positively acted by Punch and Judy before the children in the street. It is the secret, known to the satirists of all time, that to be merely a married man or woman is to be a wooden puppet, hideous, tragic and absurd.