[They enter the inner room and are received with a roar of applause. The doors close behind them, and almost at the same moment BURKE enters in the front in hat and cloak. He looks about him as if expecting somebody; goes up to the inner doors, hesitates, and comes back to sit down on one of the benches.

  Enter WILKES behind, wearing the red cap.

  BURKE does not see him at first, but remains as if ruminating.

  WILKES. Dreaming about the British Constitution, Mr. Burke? I think the Constitution must haunt even your dreams.

  BURKE. Why, Sir, I might dream of worse things. My old nurse used to think there was something to be learnt from dreams.

  WILKES. She was an Irish nurse, I take it, and saw things that do not exist. Shall I let you into a secret? The British Constitution does not exist. It requires an Irishman to dream of it.

  BURKE. You dreamed of it a good deal yourself, Mr. Wilkes, when you were turning the world upside down to get into the House of Commons. Do you regard the House of Commons as a dream?

  WILKES. I regard it as a nightmare. Trying to get into it is somewhat diverting; and being indignantly kept out of it is delightful. But being in it! Lord deliver us! Mr. Burke, do you know why the English people have always supported me?

  BURKE. To be frank with you, I have sometimes pondered on the point.

  WILKES. It is because I have been found out. The English people are ruled by men who have not been found out. But they know in their hearts what I know with my head; that their rulers are rascals, who are also hypocrites. But at least the people are too generous for one final cowardice; they will not punish another rascal for not being a hypocrite. In politics they are sure of nobody’s virtue; but they are sure of my vices; I am in the open. When once they can give a dog a bad name, they will never hang him.

  BURKE. Your notion of politics is indeed something of a nightmare.

  WILKES. It would be if I had not wakened up long ago. I do believe Mr. Burke, that when you see Westminster you see the barons defying John or the Peers trying Strafford. I see a mob of money-grubbers about as dignified as a monkeyhouse. Bribes, places, salaries, South Sea Bubbles; these are the realities for which men live.

  BURKE. It is only for the dreams that they die.

  WILKES. Are they very wise in that?

  BURKE. Yes, they are very wise. If states have held together and survived revolt and ruin, it has been by the wilder wisdom of that magnanimous folly. You talk to me of practice and experience; I tell you you could not hire a coach or get credit for a coat if there were not spread over all society this atmosphere of authority, this grand illusion of civic sublimity and the glamour of a great past. Men can obey that which is royal or republican, that which is or is not despotic or which is or is not democratical. But believe me, men cannot obey that which is not dignified, or which does not believe in its own dignity. For this reason has all authority from the beginning clothed itself in trailing robes and towering headdresses; and carried strange emblems in the hand and worn strange symbols on the head.

  WILKES. That is true; and I am wearing one myself at this moment. How do you like it, Mr. Burke?

  BURKE. Why, I do not think I like it very much. I never saw it before.

  WILKES. You will see it again. But I do not think you will like it any better. Well, Mr. Burke, I must not waste your time, which is so valuable, and I did not ask you here to admire my taste in caps. I am well aware, Sir, that your admirable work for liberty and peace would bring you into alliance with many enthusiasts, whom you yourself would recognise with some reluctance. One of these, my friend Mr. Swift, has recently adopted certain philosophical principles which I cannot expect you or any of your circle to regard with anything but horror. Nevertheless I would submit —

  [Enter BOSWELL, walking in great haste and looking round rather wildly.

  BOSWELL. IS Dr. Johnson here?

  BURKE. Dr. Johnson! No, of course not.

  BOSWELL. He is coming here. He is on the way, for all I know. I have tried to head him off, but it seems impossible.

  BURKE. Why should he come here?

  WILKES. He shouldn’t.

  BOSWELL. He mustn’t.

  BURKE. Well, why shouldn’t he come here?

  WILKES. AS Mr. Boswell is speechless with horror, I will try to explain why he should and should not. For the first, he is desirous of renewing the acquaintance of my revolutionary friend Swift, and the equally revolutionary Mrs. Swift.

  BOSWELL. He has brought a manuscript from Oxford, which he promised to show to Mrs. Swift.

  WILKES. Something out of a sermon, I believe, on the duty of wives.

  BOSWELL. And now he has obtained the manuscript, I fear that his lady friend does not require it.

  WILKES. Or requires it too much. Perhaps that is how he would put it. Frankly, Mr. Burke, the situation is a delicate one, but I feel sure you will help us, if only for the Doctor’s sake.

  BURKE. For his sake? How will it affect him?

  BOSWELL. It will affect him more than I like to think of. He has returned to town in complete innocence of all these society scandals. He remembers this lady as a sort of New England Puritan; and he will know nothing till he comes here.

  WILKES. Dr. Johnson is an old man.

  BURKE. Yes, Sir, I begin to see what you mean. And it is very terrible; it would come on him like a thunderbolt. What shall I do if the collision comes between him and all these wild spirits; and I can only stand by and pity my old friend?

  BOSWELL. If the collision comes, I shall pity them. But it will be none the less dreadful; more dreadful than you know.

  BURKE. What do you mean?

  BOSWELL. Mr. Burke, I know that you literary gentlemen sometimes laugh at me; but I sometimes fancy the world will say that I knew something about you. At least I think the world will say one thing of me; that I know Dr. Johnson. Dr. Johnson is very fond of this young lady; it is in such cases that he remembers that he has no children. There are other things you do not know about the possibilities here, and I can only give a frightened guess. You have never seen Dr. Johnson angry.

  BURKE. Faith! I should have fancied that we all had that privilege. He has honoured me by calling me a fool before now.

  BOSWELL. I do not mean angry in an argument. Do you remember what he said to a girl who complained that he called her a goose? “If I had thought that, I certainly should not have said it.” He calls you a fool because he knows very well you are not one. He tells me he hates all Scotchmen, because I know very well he does not hate me. Only twice in my life, and long ago, I have seen Johnson really angry, with something that he really did hate. And I tell you that I remember those few far-off moments as he remembers the hour of death and the Day of Judgment. I turn cold when I think of them.

  WILKES. What do you imagine will happen?

  BOSWELL. I do not imagine it. I can only say that he will do no murder; but if that woman died in her chair I could hardly be incredulous.

  WILKES. The only thing I can suggest is that if he comes here we should delay him with talk as long as possible. He will generally lose himself in an argument.

  BURKE. Yes, he loses all sense of time; and so do I. Indeed, there would seem to be something in the very nature of a quest after abstract truth —

  WILKES. I thought I heard a step outside.

  BOSWELL. SO did I; and I know the step.

  BURKE. I feel as if I were watching a great thunder-cloud moving slowly across a landscape. [Enter DR. JOHNSON.]

  BURKE. Why, is it you, Doctor? I wished to consult you about something.

  JOHNSON. Mr. and Mrs. Swift are here, I am told.

  BURKE. The matter on which I wish to consult you concerned a young friend of mine, who is of your own politics and religious views. He has an opportunity of going into Parliament; and as I am myself of the opposite party, I hardly trust myself to give him unbiassed advice. But he is a young man of considerable sensibility; and fears that political life would only be painful to him; that it would vex him if things went wrong.

  JOHNSON. That is cant, Sir. It would vex him no more in the House than in the gallery. Public affairs vex no man.

  BOSWELL. Have they not vexed yourself not a little, Sir? Have you not been vexed by all the turbulence of this reign and by that absurd vote of the House of Commons against the King?

  JOHNSON. I have never slept an hour less, nor ate an ounce less meat. I would have knocked the factious dogs on the head, to be sure; but I was not vexed.

  WILKES. I am sure you would not knock Mr. Burke on the head; but I am a little more apprehensive for myself, even if public affairs vex no man. I should have supposed that public affairs were for every patriotic man the most reasonable ground of vexation. What should a good Englishman be concerned about, if not about public affairs?

  JOHNSON. Sir, I am now concerned about private affairs; which are the only affairs that matter.

  WILKES. Have you no conception of patriotism?

  JOHNSON. Sir, after the experience of some years I have formed a very clear conception of patriotism. I have generally found it thrust into the foreground by some fellow who has something to hide in the background. I have seen a great deal of patriotism; and I have generally found it the last refuge of a scoundrel. [He moves past WILKES towards the inner door; just as a chorus is heard growing louder in the room within. BOSWELL starts up in his path in great agitation.]

  BOSWELL. Dr. Johnson — pardon me — a question I have often wanted — I have often wondered, Dr. Johnson, what you would do if — you were left alone in a tower with a baby.

  JOHNSON. Sir, I should not much like my company. [Walks towards the inner doors and passes in.]

  [The chorus stops suddenly, and there is a silence.

  BOSWELL. We can do no more.

  BURKE. The hush before the thunder.

  WILKES. You are right, gentlemen, you can do no more here. I must go back to my post. I advise you to go back to your homes.

  BURKE. I shall go outside at least. I cannot endure this silence.

  [BURKE and BOSWELL go out in front and WILKES goes to the inner doors, listens, and then slips inside. After a silence, the inner doors are flung open and MARY comes out with an air of flaming impatience and defiance, followed by DR. JOHNSON.

  MARY. What is the use of your seeing me alone? What is the use of your seeing me at all? If my old nurse in New England came back like a ghost and told me to take care of my dolls and my pinafore, I suppose I should be glad to see her, but do you think I should attend to what she said? I have grown up; I have new ideas that you would never understand; you think there is a sort of supernatural flame, I suppose, on the hearth or altar that will burn for ever. But what is the good of your making things more miserable by coming here to curse me with bell, book and candle? What is the use of your thundering at me from a throne like the Pope of Rome, without even knowing I am a Protestant? Why should you trouble to excommunicate me from a church I do not belong to, and send me to a hell I do not believe in?

  JOHNSON. Nay, Madam, I only called to pay my respects. [After a pause.] Or something which, perhaps, is not always the same. My respect.

  MARY. Your respect?

  JOHNSON. Why, Madam, it is only among very abject spirits that compassion destroys respect; and these are cases very pitiable in which respect will remain the stronger passion. Had I beheld one of the virgin martyrs of the Early Church undergoing torments for the Faith, it would doubtless be deeply distressing; but reverence would surely predominate. It is such reverence that I am bound to feel for your sorrows, your courage and your constancy.

  MARY. Is this what you men of letters call irony?

  JOHNSON. Nay, Madam, I am not ironical. I do not pretend to think your course of action theoretically correct; but a man may admire when he does not approve. If not of a Christian martyr, it is at least a case of a pagan heroine. When the wife of Brutus swallowed fire in order to die with her husband, a Christian must formally call it suicide, but surely a man may call it sublime. Pardon me if my admiration for your own fidelity as a wife should praise you rather as Portia than as Perpetua.

  MARY. My fidelity as a wife?

  JOHNSON. And it would be the more inconsistent of me to condemn your tragic devotion since, even if it be erroneous, it is in some sense identical with the advice I myself gave you.

  MARY. The advice you gave me?

  JOHNSON. When first we met in the Highlands, and you gave me a cup of tea —

  MARY [with a smile]. I think, Dr. Johnson, that you had more than one.

  JOHNSON. Madam, it is possible that I had two. On that occasion I told you you were right to follow your husband, if he dressed up as a monkey in a masquerade or went mad and said he was the Emperor of China. On that same occasion I told you that some day I would come back and repay you for that cup of tea; and I am here to repay. It was a long journey, and has led me into strange places; but I have found you, Patient Grizel.

  MARY. Nobody ever called me patient before.

  JOHNSON. Then nobody has done you justice. He has done all that I said and more. He has brought you to the masquerade. He has brought you to the mad-house. You have, as I said, stuck straws in your own hair; and to me at least they become you like a crown of laurel.

  MARY. But madness is a matter of opinion. We have other opinions. I do not think my husband is mad.

  JOHNSON. Madam, you are humouring him like a lunatic, and you are right. You are loyal to him, and you are right. You are lying to me, and you are right.

  MARY. No, no.

  JOHNSON [with greater warmth]. Splendide mendux et in omne virgo nobilis œvum.

  MARY. Nay, if you curse me in Latin, I shall be none the worse for it.

  JOHNSON. It is a pleasure to translate the curse. It only means, “A splendid liar ana a noble woman, worthy to be honoured for all time.”

  MARY. Then you do not believe my word?

  JOHNSON. NO, Madam, I do not.

  MARY [after a pause]. Have you ever had a wife, Dr. Johnson?

  JOHNSON. Yes, Madam, I have known what it is to have and lose a wife.

  MARY. I thought so. I daresay she had a good deal to put up with.

  JOHNSON [rather taken aback]. Why, yes; I fear it is possible that she did.

  MARY. YOU see there is always something to put up with. We begin life expecting that; and sometimes I think that men do not. Your opinions may be quite correct, but I am sure you’ll forgive me for saying that your neckcloth is very crooked. I’ve been wanting to put it straight for the last ten minutes, and what it would be like to sit opposite it for ten years — [SWIFT comes out through the folding doors, and stops in surprise. So whether it’s opinions or cravats, there’s always something. John’s cravats are more straight even if his opinions are more crooked —

  SWIFT. What does all this mean?

  MARY. Dr. Johnson is telling me that I suffer in secret.

  SWIFT. And you denied it of course.

  MARY. Yes, I denied it — of course.

  SWIFT. I think Dr. Johnson does not understand; with all respect for him, I think he could hardly be expected to understand. Mary and I are excellent friends, and all the more for having agreed to follow our social tastes in freedom. It is precisely because we agree in opinion that we are free to differ in taste. We are excellent friends; and in so far as there is any separation, it is a separation by mutual consent.

  JOHNSON. Sir, there is no such thing. There is not and never has been a separation by mutual consent. I am an old man now, and have known something of the conjugal difficulties of many couples. I have known them separated by all manner of things; I have known them separated by jealousy and levity and lust, by poverty and by wealth, by sin and self-righteousness. But I never knew a couple separated by mutual consent. There is always one who divorces and the other who endures the divorce. There is always one who succeeds and one who suffers. You asked me if I believed in a supernatural fire on the hearth that would burn for ever. Let me ask you a question in return. Did you ever know two natural fires that went out at exactly the same moment?

  SWIFT [frowning]. I confess that is a fair point.

  JOHNSON [with energy]. And now, Sir, for your new philosophical morality, as it compares with the old. There is always a faithless and a faithful partner in such a case. But your new morality means that it shall be always the faithful who suffers, and only the faithful who suffers. Your new morality provides that the faithless shall always be happy, that he or she only needs to be faithless in order to be happy. Suffer me to retain my prejudice in favour of a more primitive philosophy. I am not yet converted to a creed which systematically rewards people for breaking their word, and punishes them for keeping it.

  SWIFT. But how can we prove the existence of these faithful people who are punished?

  JOHNSON. You have not far to look.

  SWIFT [in sudden agitation, as if a light broke on him], Mary, is this true, have you been deceiving me — putting me in the wrong — wearing a mask as if you were at a carnival. How could you dare —

  JOHNSON. Nay, Sir, if you are free to be a bad husband, surely she is free to be a good wife.

  SWIFT [to MARY]. Are you going to answer my question?

  MARY. NO, I am going away.

  JOHNSON [moving towards the inner doors]. Are you going this way?

  MARY. NO; I am going the other way. I am going home.

  SWIFT. Why in the world are you going home now?

  MARY. Because I never could see the use of listening to a discussion when I know how it will end. [She goes out at the front.]

  SWIFT [turning with sudden fierceness]. What have you been doing with my wife?

  JOHNSON. Nay, Sir, I understood that this barbarous proprietorship was abolished. I understood we were free of all these antiquated forms.

  I have surely as much right to talk to her as Jack Wilkes.

  SWIFT. I did not know you modelled yourself on Jack Wilkes.

  JOHNSON. And I wish, Sir, that you would model yourself upon him.

  SWIFT. What do you mean?

  JOHNSON. Jack Wilkes is a better man than you. He neglects his wife. He deserts his wife. He leaves her at home on her death-bed, for all he knows, while he runs after other men’s wives. But Jack is honest, and there is a sort of magnanimity about him. He does not go back and stand by her death-bed, and tell her to get up and dance to show her delight at being deserted. He does not rob her even of her own right to be angry, by plastering her all over with sham philosophies that she can neither answer nor understand. He does not force her to pretend to agree with him, to pretend to copy him, merely that he may feel more comfortable in his own infamy. Come, Sir, I use harsh words, but I do believe your understanding to be naturally open to the truth; look the truth in the face. Are you not reposing all the time on your wife’s magnanimous silence, as much as any tyrant ever reposed on the meaner silence of a slave?