We were all excessively provoked: for we were languishing, fretting, expiring to hear him talk—not to see him read! What could that do for us?
My sister then played another duet, accompanied by my father, to which Miss Thrale seemed very attentive; and all the rest quietly resigned. But Dr. Johnson had opened a volume of the British Encyclopædia, and was so deeply engaged, that the music, probably, never reached his ears.
When it was over, Mrs. Thrale, in a laughing manner, said: ‘Pray, Dr. Burney, will you be so good as to tell me what that song was, and whose, which Savoi sang last night at Bach’s[[29]] concert, and which you did not hear?’
My father confessed himself by no means so able a diviner, not having had time to consult the stars, though he lived in the house of Sir Isaac Newton. But, anxious to draw Dr. Johnson into conversation, he ventured to interrupt him with Mrs. Thrale’s conjuring request relative to Bach’s concert.
The Doctor, comprehending his drift, good-naturedly put away his book, and, see-sawing, with a very humorous smile, drolly repeated: ‘Bach, sir?—Bach’s concert? And pray, sir, who is Bach? Is he a piper?’
You may imagine what exclamations followed such a question.
Mrs. Thrale gave a detailed account of the nature of the concert, and the fame of Mr. Bach, and the many charming performances she had heard, with all their varieties, in his rooms.
When there was a pause, ‘Pray, madam,’ said he, with the calmest gravity, ‘what is the expense for all this?’
‘Oh,’ answered she, ‘the expense is much trouble and solicitation to obtain a subscriber’s ticket—or else, half a guinea!’
‘Trouble and solicitation,’ he replied, ‘I will have nothing to do with; but, if it be so fine, I would be willing to give’—he hesitated, and then finished with—‘eighteen-pence.’