The attitude of Colman in regard to the comedy was quite in keeping
with the traditions of the stage of the eighteenth century, nor was it
so contrary to the traditions of the nineteenth century. Colman, like
the rest of his profession--not even excepting Garrick--possessed only a
small amount of knowledge as to what playgoers desired to have presented
to them. Whatever successes he achieved were certainly not due to his
own acumen. He had no idea that audiences had grown tired of stilted
blank verse tragedies and comedies constructed on the most conventional
lines, with plentiful allusions to heathen deities, but a plentiful lack
of human nature. Such plays had succeeded in his hands previously, and
he could see no reason why he should substitute for them anything more
natural. He had no idea that playgoers were ready to hail with pleasure
a comedy founded upon scenes of everyday life, not upon the spurious
sentimentality of an artificial age.
He had produced “The Good Natured Man” some years before, and had made
money by the transaction. But the shrieks of the shallow critics who
had condemned the introduction of the low-life personages into that
play were still ringing in his ears; so, when he found that the leading
characteristics of these personages were not only introduced but
actually intensified in the new comedy, which the author had named
provisionally “The Mistakes of a Night,” he at first declined to have
anything to do with it. But, fortunately, Goldsmith had influential
friends--friends who, like Dr. Johnson and Bishop Percy, had recognised
his genius when he was living in a garret and before he had written
anything beyond a few desultory essays--and they brought all their
influence to bear upon the Covent Garden manager. He accepted the
comedy, but laid it aside for several months, and only grudgingly, at
last, consented to put it in rehearsal.
Daily, when Goldsmith attended the rehearsals, the manager did his best
to depreciate the piece, shaking his head over some scenes, shrugging
his shoulders over others, and asking the author if he actually meant
to allow certain portions of the dialogue to be spoken as he had written
them.
This attitude would have discouraged a man less certain of his position
than Goldsmith. It did not discourage him, however, but its effect was
soon perceptible upon the members of the company. They rehearsed in a
half-hearted way, and accepted Goldsmith's suggestions with demur.
At the end of a week Gentleman Smith, who had been cast for Young
Marlow, threw up the part, and Colman inquired of Goldsmith if he was
serious in his intention to continue rehearsing the piece. In a moment
Goldsmith assured him that he meant to perform his part of the contract
with the manager, and that he would tolerate no backing out of that same
contract by the manager. At his friend Shuter's suggestion, the part was
handed over to Lee Lewes.
After this, it might at least have been expected that Colman would make
the best of what he believed to be a bad matter, and give the play every
chance of success. On the contrary, however, he was stupid even for the
manager of a theatre, and was at the pains to decry the play upon every
possible occasion. Having predicted failure for it, he seemed determined
to do his best to cause his prophecies to be realized. At rehearsal he
provoked Goldsmith almost beyond endurance by his sneers, and actually
encouraged the members of his own company in their frivolous complaints
regarding their dialogue. He spoke the truth to Goldsmith when he said
he was not surprised that Woodward and Mrs. Abington had thrown up
their parts: he would have been greatly surprised if they had continued
rehearsing.
When the unfortunate author now entered the green room, the buzz of
conversation which had been audible outside ceased in an instant. He
knew that he had formed the subject of the conversation, and he could
not doubt what was its nature. For a moment he was tempted to turn round
and go back to Colman in order to tell him that he would withdraw
the play. The temptation lasted but a moment, however: the spirit of
determination which had carried him through many difficulties--that
spirit which Reynolds appreciated and had embodied in his portrait--came
to his aid. He walked boldly into the green room and shook hands with
both Woodward and Mrs. Abington.
“I am greatly mortified at the news which I have just had from Mr.
Colman,” he said; “but I am sure that you have not taken this serious
step without due consideration, so I need say no more about it. Mr.
Colman will be unable to attend this rehearsal, but he is under an
agreement with me to produce my comedy within a certain period, and he
will therefore sanction any step I may take on his behalf. Mr. Quick
will, I hope, honour me by reading the part of Tony Lumpkin and Mrs.
Bulk-ley that of Miss Hardcastle, so that there need be no delay in the
rehearsal.”
The members of the company were somewhat startled by the tone adopted by
the man who had previously been anything but fluent in his speech, and
who had submitted with patience to the sneers of the manager. They now
began to perceive something of the character of the man whose life had
been a fierce struggle with adversity, but who even in his wretched
garret knew what was due to himself and to his art, and did not hesitate
to kick downstairs the emissary from the government that offered him
employment as a libeller.
“Sir,” cried the impulsive Mrs. Bulkley, putting out her hand to
him--“Sir, you are not only a genius, you are a man as well, and it will
not be my fault if this comedy of yours does not turn out a success.
You have been badly treated, Dr. Goldsmith, and you have borne your
ill-treatment nobly. For myself, sir, I say that I shall be proud to
appear in your piece.”
“Madam,” said Goldsmith, “you overwhelm me with your kindness. As for
ill-treatment, I have nothing to complain of so far as the ladies and
gentlemen of the company are concerned, and any one who ventures to
assert that I bear ill-will toward Mr. Woodward and Mrs. Abington I
shall regard as having put an affront upon me. Before a fortnight has
passed I know that they will be overcome by chagrin at their rejection
of the opportunity that was offered them of being associated with the
success of this play, for it will be a success, in spite of the untoward
circumstances incidental to its birth.”
He bowed several times around the company, and he did it so awkwardly
that he immediately gained the sympathy and good-will of all the actors:
they reflected how much better they could do it, and that, of course,
caused them to feel well disposed towards Goldsmith.
“You mean to give the comedy another name, sir, I think,” said Shuter,
who was cast for the part of Old Hardcastle.
“You may be sure that a name will be forthcoming,” said Goldsmith.
“Lord, sir, I am too good a Christian not to know that if an accident
was to happen to my bantling before it is christened it would be damned
to a certainty.”
The rehearsal this day was the most promising that had yet taken place.
Col-man did not put in an appearance, consequently the disheartening
influence of his presence was not felt. The broadly comical scenes were
acted with some spirit, and though it was quite apparent to Goldsmith
that none of the company believed that the play would be a success, yet
the members did not work, as they had worked hitherto, on the assumption
that its failure was inevitable.
On the whole, he left the theatre with a lighter heart than he had had
since the first rehearsal. It was not until he returned to his chambers
to dress for the evening that he recollected he had not yet arrived at
a wholly satisfactory solution of the question which had kept him awake
during the greater part of the night.
The words that Mary Horneck had spoken and the look there was in her
eyes at the same moment had yet to be explained.
He seated himself at his desk with his hand to his head, his
elbow resting on a sheet of paper placed ready for his pen. After
half-an-hour's thought his hand went mechanically to his tray of pens.
Picking one up with a sigh, he began to write.
Verse after verse appeared upon the paper--the love-song of a man who
feels that love is shut out from his life for evermore, but whose only
consolation in life is love.
After an hour's fluent writing he laid down the pen and once again
rested his head on his hand. He had not the courage to read what he
had written. His desk was full of such verses, written with unaffected
sincerity when every one around him was engaged in composing verses
which were regarded worthy of admiration only in proportion as they were
artificial.
He wondered, as he sat there, what would be the result of his sending to
Mary Horneck one of those poems which his heart had sung to her. Would
she be shocked at his presumption in venturing to love her? Would his
delightful relations with her and her family be changed when it became
known that he had not been satisfied with the friendship which he had
enjoyed for some years, but had hoped for a response to his deeper
feeling?
His heart sank as he asked himself the question.
“How is it that I seem ridiculous as a lover even to myself?” he
muttered. “Why has God laid upon me the curse of being a poet? A poet is
the chronicler of the loves of others, but it is thought madness should
he himself look for the consolation of love. It is the irony of life
that the man who is most capable of deep feeling should be forced to
live in loneliness. How the world would pity a great painter who was
struck blind--a great orator struck dumb! But the poet shut out from
love receives no pity--no pity on earth--no pity in heaven.”
He bowed his head down to his hands, and remained in that attitude for
an hour. Then he suddenly sprang to his feet. He caught up the paper
which he had just covered with verses, and was in the act of tearing it.
He did not tear the sheet quite across, however; it fell from his hand
to the desk and lay there, a slight current of air from a window making
the torn edge rise and fall as though it lay upon the beating heart of
a woman whose lover was beside her--that was what the quivering motion
suggested to the poet who watched it.
“And I would have torn it in pieces and made a ruin of it!” he said.
“Alas! alas! for the poor torn, fluttering heart!”
He dressed himself and went out, but to none of his accustomed haunts,
where he would have been certain to meet with some of the distinguished
men who were rejoiced to be regarded as his friends. In his mood he knew
that friendship could afford him no solace.
He knew that to offer a man friendship when love is in his heart is like
giving a loaf of bread to one who is dying of thirst.