The Detections of Dr. Sam Johnson

by Lillian de la Torre

  “You are tired of the law. Hither you come, personating, in your conceit, a more romantick figure—the Gentleman Highwayman.”

  “Yet I trust, sir, that I am more Gentleman than Highwayman.”

  “What do you say, then, to yonder fellow who yearns to return to the Garden of Eden? And what an Eve he has chosen!”

  Adam’s pink silk sheath was so all-revealing it made the ladies blush and stare. His Eve had chosen to appear in the briefest of bodices, the gauziest of petticoats, the tallest of powdered wigs, and the most diamonds. She sailed along superbly, high-bosomed, long-limbed, rolling bold blue eyes left and right behind her masque of lace and velvet.

  “Nay, Bozzy, you perceive here’s another use for the ridotto, the publick exposure of one’s wares.”

  “Not so, sir, there you are out; this lady is not for sale. This is Miss Fanny Hall.”

  “Oh, then she is sold already.”

  It was too true, as all the world well knew. Her ripe beauties she had long since brought to market, and made a good bargain. She was the acknowledged inamorata of the sardonic sea-faring Earl of F—. It was he who had loaded her white wrists and whiter throat with the diamonds that so ill suited with Paradisal simplicity. Tonight she was wearing the famous Brouwere necklace, a replica of that made by the same jeweller for the Empress of Russia. The necklace, they say, was her price, and the jeweller executed it in the Golconda diamonds the Earl had fetched from India. As the malicious whisper ran, the Earl had had her at cut rate after all, for the Empress’ stones outweighed hers two to one; but Mistress Fan, never having seen the Empress or her necklace, flaunted the Earl’s gift in ignorant bliss.

  As to the Earl, he was now at sea with the Fleet; but Mistress Fanny was showing no signs of being inconsolable. Masquers dangled after: a devil in red, a grasshopper in green, a medley of dominos. Let them dangle; I had a scheam to scatter them. What an adventure for me, were I to win my way over so many rivals, not by diamonds, but by my single power of address! Surely James Boswell, young, amorous, and quick of wit, could distance the field and hornify the Earl …

  My friend’s sonorous voice shattered my candle-light dreams:

  “And behold this superannuated houri, such as the bravest Musselman might quake to meet in Paradise. How much more seemly is the flowing crimson domino that follows.” The crimson domino tipped me a most unseemly wink.

  “And what is this siege-engine in purple velvet?”

  ’Twas Mrs. Cornelys herself, a formidable Juno, her once handsome visage as seamy as her rumored past. She stood forth, stilled the fiddles and bade the merrymakers unmask.

  “Now masques are dropped,” my friend moralized on, “and fancy gives way to reality, action ensues upon desire. The houri will carry her partner to Paradise, Adam will have his Eve—”

  “He may not, sir,” said I, adding inwardly: “For I hope I shall have her.”

  “He may so, sir; nay, Pegasus may fly. Yet if you find yourself in Bow Street, Bozzy, for going on the heath to cry ‘Stand and deliver!’ send not to me to go your bail!”

  A hand tugged my sleeve. ’Twas the little red domino.

  “Come quick, Mr. Boswell, for the gipsy is about to read Miss Fanny’s fortune!”

  “What, cartomancy is toward?” cried Dr. Johnson. “The coney-catching commences! I’ll none of it!”

  I smiled. That ’twas coney-catching indeed, none knew better than I. I had already (to confess all in a word) concerted my scheam with Mrs. Cornelys’ gipsy soothsayer, telling her what to say and feeing her well to say it. Miss Fanny was greedy for marvels. Let a soothsayer but put me forward, and my affair must prosper. But of this I said nothing.

  “What, sir,” I protested politely, “will you so soon be gone?”

  “I’m for bed betimes. I must be in Streatham tomorrow, and Mrs. Thrale brooks no delay.”

  “Streatham indeed,” said I sourly, for I grudged the volatile lady her half-weekly share of my learned friend’s company. “At Streatham you’ll find as much masquing and mumming as shall last you a month.”

  “But no cartomancy,” said Dr. Johnson sternly. He gave me a curt nod, and made off.

  In the Chinese supper-room the Romany seeress awaited only the presence of her claudestine employer—myself. Her beady eye caught mine, and the ceremony began. Curious faces ringed the table as the wrinkled old gipsy laid out the Tarot pack, the mysterious Egyptian cards that figure the future.

  Mistress Fan hung over the strange pictured cards. In the centre was set out a woman meshed in a whirlwind—“Yourself, pretty lady.”

  “And see, round about a crowd of men,” cried Miss Fanny, preening. “Here’s one wears a broad hat, a mountebank, by his seeming—”

  “The Juggler—trust him not, milady.”

  “And here’s one—how frightsome!—leads a spotted beast. A hyena?”

  “The Alchemist—avoid him, milady.”

  I plucked at the gaudy sleeve. These cards were nothing to my purpose. A better card fell at once.

  “What shall signify this booted rider of swarthy mien? See, he carries a great disc of gold!” Mistress Fanny’s pink tongue touched her pouting lip.

  “The Knight of Coins, the Tartar Knight, milady—a dark man, a lover, he brings money in his hand, and much money around him—see the cards, the nine golden sequins, the eight guineas of gold, the ten crowns—the dark lover brings much money, madam.”

  “O brave dark man!” cried the courtesan, who as all the world knew was as greedy for gold as for marvels.

  “Why, Fan, sure ’tis Mr. Boswell!” cried my little friend in the red domino, innocently forwarding my scheam, “for see, he’s dark as any Spaniard!”

  My swarthy countenance in the mirror smiled back at me.

  “Poh!” struck in a new voice huskily. “This dark man is never young Boswell. Where should a Scotch lairdie come by so much coin?”

  I scowled upon the speaker. ’Twas that plaguy old harridan, Mrs. Cornelys.

  “Much money? Nay,” she proclaimed, “I can tell you who this dark man will be—and see yonder where he stands!”

  Every eye followed her gesture. In the doorway towered a new masquer, one who supported the character of an astrologer. His long black robe glittered with diamond stars. His pointed mage’s steeple brushed the lintel above his head. In his long-nosed Venetian masque he loomed like some frightsome genie of legend.

  “Pray, Mrs. Cornelys, what is he?”

  I thought the woman gave me a malicious smile as she answered Mistress Fan’s question:

  “A foreign nobleman of great wealth, come to London incognito.”

  “If he comes incognito,” muttered I sourly, “then how do you know him?”

  “He cannot deceive me, for I knew him in old days at Amsterdam. What his right name is, no man knows; but he is called Saint-Germain the Deathless.”

  “How, deathless?”

  “They say he will never die. Some people think he is the Wandering Jew, and has been on this earth since Christ at His passion bade him tarry. Nor does he deny it. Sometimes he lets slip a word, as if he remembered times long out of memory, of Pontius Pilate and of Tamas Kouli-Khan.”

  “What does he live on?”

  “On a magical elixir, they say, which he brews himself, being an adept and an alchemist, and this gives him eternal youth.”

  As if on cue, the tall alchemist in the doorway drew off the masque, revealing a dark hawk’s face with glittering black eyes lighting such features as an ancient statue in bronze might bear.

  “He lives on air, say others,” Mrs. Cornelys gabbled glibly on, “being a sylph or elemental.”

  “Poh,” said Miss Fanny impatiently, “I care not for his diet, I. What estate has he? What money, eh?”

  “A great estate, though no man knows surely where it lies. He is plentifully supplied with precious stones. The ones you see upon his robe are the least of his treasure. Some say that in his wanderings he has discovered the secret o
f the diamond mines of Golconda.”

  The grasshopper, now revealed as little Minick the jeweller, stared upon the wizard and sucked his lip.

  “Others say,” continued Mrs. Cornelys with relish, “that he has discovered the Philosopher’s Stone, and makes diamonds. One day, so the story runs, falling in converse with the French King about gems, and inspecting a goodly diamond, Saint-Germain offered by his art to double it in size. Taking it, he returned to the King next day a great flawless gem of the first water, for which the King’s lapidary offered ten thousand louis on the spot.”

  “Ten thousand louis!” Mistress Fanny swept aside the Tarot cards and rose with decision. “Fetch him hither!”

  So fast do the best-laid scheams of mortal man, in our old Scots phrase, gang agley! There stood I forgotten, while Mistress Fan held out her white hand to the lips of Saint-Germain the Deathless!

  “Monsieur le Comte,” cooed Mistress Fan, “is it true that you are a wizard?”

  To this had all my hopes and scheams fallen! Within the Chinese alcove, tête-à-tête, Mistress Fanny Hall and Saint-Germain the Deathless sipped sillabub. From the large supper room glasses clinked; in the salon a harpsichord tinkled. Scorning dance and refreshment alike, I stood glowering, unseen, muffled in someone’s discarded domino, intent only to watch over Mistress Fan, for the wizard disquieted me. As a gentleman, I stopped my ears; but such a turning did their discourse take, that I soon unstopped them again.

  “Is it true, as they say, that you can make diamonds?”

  The black brows lifted.

  “Alas, no, Madame. There is no person who can make diamonds, without he have diamonds to begin.”

  His speech was fluent, his tone deep and soothing. The faint accent eluded me. Was it French or Italian, Dutch or High Dutch? Or was it in truth the accent of that dark street in Jerusalem two thousand years ago? I could not tell. It had some smack of all, with a mellow deep-throated tune that was the man’s own.

  “But if you have diamonds,” persisted the Earl’s mistress in her silver voice. “If you have diamonds? They say you doubled a great diamond for the French King.”

  “I may have done.”

  “Then you shall shew me how you do it.”

  “Ah, no, milady, such doings are not for you to see. It would affright the strongest, and there is desperate danger, if the pentagram fail. But come, give me your necklace, eh, I’ll return it doubled.”

  “Doubled!” The greedy eyes were sparkling. I scowled. “’Twill be beyond compare in the world!”

  She put her hand to the clasp, and paused.

  “But stay, how do I know you’ll return it?—Nay, never bridle and scowl. You shall augment it while I am by.”

  “’Twill be the harder,” shrugged the wizard, “but I’ll essay it.”

  Again her hand paused.

  “How do I know you can do what you claim? How do I know my diamonds will not dissolve and puff to dust under your hand?”

  “You do not know,” said the wizard angrily. His sombre height towered over her. “I do not seek this task, milady. If you distrust me, I’ll e’en bid you good night.”

  “Poh,” laughed Miss Fan. “Sit down again. You shall augment me but one little diamond, to shew your art.”

  “You will blab it, and I shall be beset by all the greedy and curious of London.”

  “Trust me, not I.”

  “You will not be afraid?”

  “Not with you.” Blue eyes smiled into brown, a soft white hand touched long dark fingers, and the wizard yielded to the charm.

  “Then I will do it. First, your diamond.”

  The courtesan widened her eyes at him.

  “My diamond? Will you not augment me one of yours?”

  “They are augmented already. The diamond, you comprehend, is of a density. If you understand his nature, you may stretch him until he become as two. Then beware! If you force him yet, on the instant, pouf! he will explode to dust, and you no longer have the diamond. No, no, madame; I must practise upon a virgin gem.”

  Mistress Fan, as all the world knew, was kept by the Earl well provided in diamonds. “You shall have one,” she assented.

  “And let it be of moderate size, milady.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I say so. It is I who risk my life within the pentagram.”

  “Risk life?”

  In the candlelight the mage’s intense dark eyes sparkled wildly.

  “These are deep secrets to which I admit you,” he said in his vibrant voice. “Some of this lore I had of Friar Bacon in England some hundreds of years ago. On some points it fell to Theophrastus Paracelsus in the Cinquecento to set me right. Some details I am still to perfect. Therein lies the danger.”

  “How so?”

  “Know, madame, the secret: In all things resideth the same primal matter, materia prima; to the which is superadded of the four elements, earth, air, fire, and water, so much of each as may vary the properties of things.”

  Unseen without the alcove, I listened ensorcelled, half vigilant to watch over my lady, half in superstitious awe.

  “Your diamond, milady,” the voice went on, “though he come out of the earth and have a gleam of the water, yet in his perfection is he most tinct with fire. Now in each element resideth a spirit, an elemental by name, in air, the sylph, in earth, the elf, in water, the undine, and in fire, the salamander. These elementals are spirits very wilful and powerful; a man might better tame wild horses, if he were not sure of his powers. A strong and fearless man by compelling their aid may so rend apart, as it were, the very being of the diamond, that he may expand it from within to the very limits of its boundaries. Do you understand me?”

  I doubted it; but Miss Fan nodded with wide eyes.

  “I control these wild spirits by threads of gossamer,” said the alchemist solemnly. “If they break loose, they will rend us both. Therefore, whatever you may see or hear, you must make no noise nor move a muscle—no, not though you see the heavens falling and the ground opening and flood and flame bursting forth, for once the pentacle is drawn you have no hope save in me.”

  “And what of you?”

  “I am Saint-Germain the Deathless. Me they will assail in vain. I will protect you, if you obey me.”

  “I will obey you,” said Mistress Fan in a very small voice.

  “Then let us set about it.” The magician rose, his velvet robe billowing about him. Hastily I shrank into the adjacent alcove, amid a litter of walnut shells and purple splashes of claret.

  “Conduct me,” commanded the wizard, “to your lodging.”

  “To my lodging!” The slut made herself look sanctimoniously horrified.

  “I shall require a space suitable to my purpose,” said the alchemist coldly, “having fire on the hearth and water nearby. Earth and air I’ll make shift to supply.”

  “But at midnight?” breathed Miss Fanny.

  “’Tis the most prosperous hour. Come, let us go.”

  There went my hopes for the night, past recall! The rooms were emptying. The gipsy crone was gone to her tents; but the Tarot pack still littered her deserted table. I scowled upon the scattered cards. The Tartar Knight rode on with a silly smirk. The ugly Alchemist leered sidewise at me. I tore the leer in two and left the pieces on the table. I longed to do the like to Saint-Germain the Deathless.

  “Well, Bozzy, what news?”

  Thus was I greeted, three days later, by my philosophick friend, new-returned from Streatham. He sat much at his ease in his pleasant parlour in Johnson’s Court. The emptied tea pot was pushed aside, the ample snuff-coloured waistcoat was unbuttoned, and social cordiality reigned upon his cragged countenance.

  “Wonders, sir, wonders! You recall the ridotto? Well, sir, next day when I waited at Miss Fanny Hall’s levee—

  “Give me leave to say, Bozzy, this ardour to wait upon another man’s doxy does you scant credit.”

  “Nay, sir, there’s more to it than gallantry. What do you
say to the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  “What do you call the Philosopher’s Stone? The art by which Miss Fanny Hall coins men’s hearts is older than the alchemist’s.”

  “The alchemist, that’s my theme. What do you say to a wizard that doubles the size of diamonds?”

  “I say humbug, sir.”

  “Nay, Dr. Johnson, hear me out.”

  He did so, in smiling complaisance tinged with derision.

  “And trust me, sir,” I completed the tale, “she had it out of the fire doubled, blue-white, of the first water, exquisitely cut. Do not scoff, sir, for I quote old Minick the jeweller. Miss Fan had it under his eye in the morning, and these are his words.”

  “Well, well, little Minick will not lie. This alchemist has a secret to conjure with. Pray, Bozzy, did not you contrive to make one at the conjuration, that you may also make your fortune?”

  “Alas, no, sir, ’twas a conjuration à deux.”

  “Nor did you not question the lady as to what passed?”

  “Be sure that I did, sir, it being a subject most curious, on the which I would gladly be enlightened. But Mistress Fan turns pale at the thought, and all I can learn is this: that there was a dazzle of red wildfire, and a reek as of the Pit, and then the demons rapt away her senses and left her in a swound; from which recovering, there was the augmented diamond in her hand. What do you say, is he not a wizard, this Saint-Germain the Deathless?”

  “Saint-Germain! Oh ho, now I see the light. I remember the Comte de Saint-Germain, in the days when he lived at London and intrigued for the Stuart Pretender. Stay, here is a bit of trash that concerns him.”

  Dr. Johnson rooted a moment among tall folios on his dusty book shelf, and handed me a vilely printed broadsheet bearing an inky woodcut and lines of doggerel.

  Like all such things, the wretched engraving bore little resemblance to the man himself as he had appeared at the ridotto. The graver had given the pointed face a sardonic lift of the brow, a sly quirk of the lip, that seemed to laugh at the solemn character the rhymester had given to the wizard in the doggerel blackly printed underneath: