 Act IV of Dr. Johnson, a play by A. Edward Newton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Characters in Act IV Dr. Johnson, led by Jim Lott. Frank, Dr. Johnson's Colored Servant. Red, by Nima. Mrs. De Moulin, read by Sandra Schmidt. Mr. Hool, read by Erin White. Mary Wallstone Craft, read by Elsie Siawen. Sir Joshua Reynolds, read by Alan Mapstone. Mrs. Siddins, read by Eva Davis. Dr. Brocklesby, read by Thomas Peter. Mr. Wyndham, read by Adrian Stevens. Mrs. Burnie, read by Sonja. Mr. Burke, read by Steven Fellows. Young girl, read by Lianya. Narration, read by Todd. A large room in an old house in Bolt Court, just off Fleet Street. A door to the right opens into a small passage. Door to the left into a bedroom. Two windows look upon the court. The dark red curtains are drawn. There are several bookcases filled with old books in some confusion. There is also a large table not far from one of the windows, on which are two lighted candles, for it is night. A large armchair stands close to the table. An old sofa is in one corner. There are a few unimportant prints on the walls. A fire burns fitfully in a small grate. The time is December 13, 1784. The weather is damp and cold. The room is deserted. Presently Dr. Johnson, in a long dark dressing-gown, looking very ill, enters, leaning on the arm of his colored servant Frank, followed by Mrs. de Moulins. They help him to the large chair, propping him up with pillows. Are you feeling any easier, sir? I fear my days of ease are over, but I should not complain. Either would live to be old has God to thank for the infirmities of age. I may possibly live at least breathe, three days, perhaps three weeks, but I find myself gradually growing weaker. Can I do anything for you, sir? Do ever Mr. Houl promise to come and read the Bible to me? Should he come this evening, as I hope he may admit him promptly? Yes, sir. I hear steps in the passage. Goes to the door, opens it. Mr. Houl enters. My dear friend, I came to redeem my promise. How are you this evening? Do not ask, sir. I am very ill. What is the weather? It is, I think, no effect upon the human frame, but it may powerfully effect one's spirits. It is a cold raw night. I thought so. It is good of you to come to me. Not at all. I came to read to you. What shall I read? The prayers for the sick. No, sir, no. I can pray for myself. Read one of the Psalms, the twenty-third. Mr. Houl, taking a Bible from the table, opens it, and begins to read in a low voice. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restores my soul. Louder, my dear sir, louder, I entreat you, or you read in vain. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. I've often wondered when I came to die, whether I would wish a friend with me or have it out with God alone. After a pause. I've been peevish, sir. You must forgive me. When you are as old and sick as I am, perhaps you may be peevish too. Do not mention it. I beg of you. You are, it seems, a little better. I think I am. I would give one of these legs for a year more of life, I mean, of comfortable life, not such as that I now suffer. A young lady, Mary Wollstonecraft, enters quietly and addresses Mrs. D. Mullens. Miss Wollstonecraft, to sit with you, sir. She comes forward. Dr. Johnson greets her. You have not forgotten me, I see. It is good of you to come. Come, sit by me. She sits. I am glad to come. How are you, sir? Very ill indeed, even with you by my side. Think how ill I should be were you at a distance. I wish I had something to bring you, but I am very poor. A silver teapot is all I own in the world. I have nothing. Don't say so, my dear. You have my heart. I hope you don't call that nothing. Are you still concerning yourself with the wrongs of women? Yes, sir, and shall continue to do so, so long as the law discriminates against us. Dr. Johnson, with a flash of his old controversial self-returning. My dear! Nature has given women so much power that the law very wisely gives them very little. But, sir, laws were made by men and imposed upon women. Is that fair? Law is the last result of human wisdom acting upon human experience for the benefit of mankind. I must not become involved in this discussion. I am going, sir, and shall meet Dr. Gibbons. Have you any message for him? Tell Dr. Gibbons I should be glad to see him. If you'll call on me and doddle over a cup of tea, I shall take it kind. They shake hands. Mr. Hool goes out, accompanied by Frank. I cannot debate with you, sir. I love you, sir, and wish I could revere your opinions as I do you. I used to debate mightily for the sport of it, but it fatigues me now. I am a sick old man. I should not have troubled you, sir, with my opinions. I shall not when I come again. May I come again? However you will, my dear, I am entirely dependent upon my friends. She takes his hand, kisses it, and goes out, leaving him alone with Mrs. Damoulins. Would you like a book, sir? No. Yes, a book should help us to enjoy life or endure it. Bring me a small book, a book that can be held readily in the hand is the most useful, after all. Mrs. Damoulins, going to the table and fetching several small volumes. There is a knock on the door. Mrs. Damoulins goes to the door and opens it. Sir Joshua Reynolds enters, goes up to Dr. Johnson, and greets him tenderly. My dear friend, you have, I think, a better colour than when I last saw you. We shall soon have you about again. You are, sir, one of the kindest friends I ever had. If I wished to speak evil of you, I would not know how to set about it. Did you pass a comfortable night? No, sir. I was sleepless and in pain. I thought for a time that my mind was affected. To test myself I composed Latin verses, they were poor verses, and I knew that they were poor. This comforted me for I knew that I had not lost my critical faculties. I have just had a letter from our friend Dr. Taylor. Dr. Johnson, his mind wandering a little. Dr. Taylor? Dr. Taylor of Ashbourne, sir. Your old friend and mine, for whom you have in the past, written so many sermons. He wrote to say that he was greatly pleased with the portrait. The portrait? Why, yes. Don't you remember? Your portrait that I painted for him. You are leaning slightly forward, and there is a red curtain at the back. You thought it made you look too old. Ah! I have remember I know the room in which it is to hang, the room with the crystal lusters. Dr. Taylor was pleased, was he? Yes, he said it was an excellent likeness. The chief excellence of a portrait is the resemblance. I think if you will assist me to the table I will write a letter. He has assisted to the table, where for a few moments he writes, pausing now and then for a word. When the letter is finished he hands it to Sir Joshua. Would you be good enough to read it? My mind is not, I fear, entirely clear. Sir Joshua, taking the letter and reading it slowly. My dear madam, among the earthly felicities by which heaven has ameliorated the lot of mortals, none is more likely to enhance personal rectitude or promote domestic bliss than the congenial intercourse of friend and friend. I have recently, madam, passed several weeks in your home, cheered by all that prosperity could supply of comfort and all that friendship may afford of affection. You will not fail to comprehend that I am deeply sensible of your benefaction. Suffer not your family to forget, dearest of ladies. Your most humble and obedient servant, Sam Johnson. An excellent letter, sir. I am sure the recipient will greatly value it. I must try once more. Again right. And then, very slowly, reads the letter aloud. Mr. Johnson, who came home last night, sends his respects to dear Dr. Burnie and all the dear Burnies, little and great. To Mrs. Demulans. When Frank returns, will you ask him to deliver the letter to Dr. Burnie? Sir Joshua, will be good enough to post the other. Certainly. An odd thought strikes me. We shall receive no letters in the grave. Where shall I be buried, thank you? Doubtless in the poet's corner in Westminster Abbey. I hope, sir, I may be thought worthy of that honour. I am sure of it, sir. The door opens, and Mrs. Sidden's enters in the manner of a tragedy queen. I was told I might enter. I hope I did not disturb. Dr. Johnson, trying to rise. Why, no, madam. I am glad to be disturbed. Looking around and observing that no chair is ready for her. You, madam, who so often, occasionally want to cease to other people, will the more easily excuse the want of one yourself. I am greatly honoured by this attention. I have but a moment, sir. I am playing Queen Catherine tonight. But Drury Lane is not far, and I could not resist the impulse of paying my respects to one I so greatly esteem. It is a fine part, and I wish that I could once more hobble to the theatre myself. Catherine is a noble part. Sometimes, when I play this noble part, I think of your lines. The dramas last, the dramas patrons give, and we who live to please must please to live. It is good of you, madam, to remember them. I am penitré with your kindness. My time is up. May I come again? I am alas always at home, madam. She shakes his hand, bows, and goes out. Enter Frank, with Dr. Brocklesby, an old friend, who greets the doctor tenderly. Sir, as I came through the strand, I met that rake, Jack Wilkes. He inquired very kindly after you and decided me to give you his best respects. That is good of Jack. How many years ago it is that I first met him at Mr. Dilly's table. He bore an evil reputation in those days. And still does, I fear. I hope he does not deserve it, as I grow older I think better of mankind. I am prepared to call a man a good man on easier terms than here to four. Not that I would call Jack a good man, but he is a man of parts. He keeps the ball of conversation rolling swiftly. Freedom from pain and conversation is all I require to make me happy. I have come to do what I can. Can't thou not minister to a mind diseased, plug from the memory a rooted sorrow, the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart? Therein the patient must minister to himself. But if he cannot, sir, to die is dreadful. To go, we know not where, to lie in cold obstruction and to rot, this sensible warm motion to become unneeded clawed. Knock on the door which is opened by Mrs. Dimulans, who is in constant attendance. Enter Mr. Wyndham and Miss Burnie. They greet Dr. Johnson very quietly in turn. Fanny, dear Burnie, you were in my mind when a short time ago I wrote a note to your father. I have just heard of your return from Oxford. The journey was, I hope, a pleasant one. Yes, but I was glad to get home. This is not— Looking around. Stratham, but my friends are about me, all except one. Do not mention her name, sir. I blush and weep for my sex when I think of her. Have you heard from her? No, sir. I would not permit her to write to me, however much she desire to do so. She is, I hear, with Sr. Piotzi in Milan. I hope she may be happy. I owe her a debt of gratitude for unnumbered acts of kindness and of love. I am glad to hear you speaking kindly of her, sir, for wit, genius, generosity and superlative powers of entertainment I have not met her equal. Nor have I, sir. But she was licentious. Well, I know, Fanny, do not say so, that she should prefer the company of Sr. Piotzi to that of a very sick old man is but natural, as it is perhaps but natural that the sick old man should have resented it. Does it not affect you unfavorably, sir, having so many of us in your room? I will withdraw. No, sir. I am glad to have my friends about me. I have always desired to escape from myself. I wish Jamie Boswell were here. Sudden attack of coughing ceases the doctor, who has returned to the large chair. Oh, sir, you cannot conceive with what acceleration I advance towards death. Dr. Brocklesby, who comes up to him? I fear I just so. I will be concrete. I will not capitulate. Permit me to arrange your pillow. I think I may be able to make you easier. Arrange his pillow. That will do. All that a pillow can do. Turning towards Dr. Brocklesby. Tell me plainly, sir, is it possible for me to recover? Dr. Brocklesby bowing his head. I fear it is not possible. Then, sir, I will take no more physics, not even opiates. I have prayed to God that I might render up my soul to him, unclouded. Mr. Burke is coming up the stair. Dear Burke, one of the finest minds in England, he and the Lord Chancellor, they tax all my powers. It is good of him to come. Enter Mr. Edmund Burke. Mr. Burke to Mr. Wyndham, who greets him quietly at the door. How is he? This is the end, I think. He is failing fast. Mr. Burke giving his hand to Dr. Johnson. I've been detained at the house. I hope you're not uncomfortable. My pains have left me, but I'm very weak. Dear Mund, the end cannot be far, but I have no fear. Why should you, sir? Your conscience is clear. You have by precept and by example taught us how to live. And we may from you learn how to leave this world with Christian resignation. Do some act of kindness every day. His mind wanders. Put a stone on Dear Teddy's grave, a deep, messy stone. Mrs. De Mullins, going up to him. I think a detective changed in his breathing. Dr. Broglesby, taking Dr. Johnson's hand. His mind comes and goes fitfully. For God's sake, sir, can nothing be done. I'll go to the end of the earth to save him. It is evident that Dr. Johnson is quite unconscious of what is going on around him. As Mr. Burke passes the table, he inadvertently sweeps to the floor a sheet of paper which Mr. Wyndham picks up. What is this? A prayer to his maker? Reading. Almighty and merciful Father, to Thee be thanks and praise for all Thy mercies, for the awakening of my mind, and the opportunity now granted of commemorating the death of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, our mediator and redeemer. Enable me, O Lord, to repent truly of my sins. Enable me by Thy Holy Spirit to lead hereafter a better life. Teach me to form good resolutions and bring them to effect. And when Thou shalt finally call me to another state, receive me to everlasting happiness, for our Lord Jesus Christ's sake. Very reverently. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Proud and unyielding to those above Him in rank. Kindly and considerate to those beneath Him in station. Humble and prostrate before His God. Oh, Samuel Johnson, what a man Thou art. I should be going. We should remain, I think. He runs a race with death. Dr. Johnson, coming to himself. The race is almost run. I'm afraid, sir, such a number of us may be oppressive to you. No, sir, it is not so, and I must be in a wretched state of deed when your company will not be a delight to me. My dear sir, you've always been too good to me. My friends, remember me in your prayers and forgive my acts of rudeness. Teddy, dear girl. His mind wanders. He is thinking of his wife on whose grave a stone has just been laid. What a man he was in his prime. What a towering intellect he had. Take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again. Nor any of us. You, sir, have made the doctor immortal with your brush. I wonder if Boswell will carry out his intention and write his life. No doubt of it. He has been collecting material for twenty years, and will do it very well. He will write as though he were under oath. Johnson's wisdom and his wit must be embalmed for posterity. His talk must be made a matter of record. Ah, sir, with all his wisdom and learning, he had more comical humour and love of nonsense than anybody I ever saw. And no man could turn a compliment more neatly than he, while he was a scholar he was also a man of the world. I once heard him say, I live in the world and I take in some degree the colour of the world as it moves along. The passage door opens and a young girl enters. Oh, gentlemen, I must see him. I never met him, but he is so good. He sent words to me that he would see me if he were dying. Only for a moment, sir. Only for a moment. You may be too late. Dr. Johnson, rousing himself. I'm glad you've come. Come close to me. She kneels beside his chair and takes his hand. There is complete silence. You said I might come to you if you were dying. I'm dying. Raising his hands over her head. God bless you, my dear. He dies. He's beyond the aid of man. Sir Joshua, in tears. My dear, dear friend, his death will make a chasm which nothing can fill. Boswell should give his biography an epic character. What life save his would bear such critical inspection? None. It is well with a man when he comes to die to have nothing heavier upon his conscience than having been a little rough in conversation. Gordon. End of act four. End of Dr. Johnson, a play by A. Edward Newton.