As a matter of course, Colman objected to the new title when Goldsmith
communicated it to him the next day; but the latter was firm on this
particular point. He had given the play its name, he said, and he would
not alter it now on any consideration.
Colman once again shrugged his shoulders. The production of the play
gave him so much practice at shrugging, Goldsmith expressed his regret
at not being able to introduce the part of a Frenchman, which he said he
believed the manager would play to perfection.
But when Johnson, who attended the rehearsal with Miss Reynolds, the
whole Horneck family, Cradock and Murphy, asserted, as he did with his
customary emphasis, that no better title than “She Stoops to Conquer”
could be found for the comedy, Colman made no further objections, and
the rehearsal was proceeded with.
“Nay, sir,” cried Johnson, when Goldsmith was leaving his party in a box
in order to go upon the stage, “Nay, sir, you shall not desert us. You
must stay by us to let us know when the jests are spoken, so that we
may be fully qualified to laugh at the right moments when the theatre is
filled. Why, Goldy, you would not leave us to our own resources?”
“I will be the Lieutenant Cook of the comedy, Dr. Johnson,” said Miss
Horneck--Lieutenant Cook and his discoveries constituted the chief
topics of the hour. “I believe that I know so much of the dialogue as
will enable me to pilot you, not merely to the Otaheite of a jest, but
to a whole archipelago of wit.”
“Otaheite is a name of good omen,” said Cradock. “It is suggestive of
palms, and '_palmam qui meruit ferat._'”
“Sir,” said Johnson, “you should know better than to quote Latin in the
presence of ladies. Though your remark is not quite so bad as I expected
it would be, yet let me tell you, sir, that unless the wit in the comedy
is a good deal livelier than yours, it will have a poor chance with the
playgoers.”
“Oh, sir, Dr. Goldsmith's wit is greatly superior to mine,” laughed
Cradock. “Otherwise it would be my comedy that would be in rehearsal,
and Dr. Goldsmith would be merely on a level with us who constitute his
critics.”
Goldsmith had gone on the stage and the rehearsal had begun, so that
Johnson was enabled, by pretending to give all his attention to the
opening dialogue, to hide his lack of an effective reply to Cradock for
his insolence in suggesting that they were both on the same level as
critics.
Before Shuter, as Old Hardcastle, had more than begun to drill his
servants, the mighty laughter of Dr. Johnson was shaking the box. Every
outburst was like the exploding of a bomb, or, as Cradock put it, the
broadside coming from the carronade of a three-decker. He had laughed
and applauded during the scene at the Three Pigeons--especially the
satirical sallies directed against the sentimentalists--but it was the
drilling of the servants that excited him most, and he inquired of Miss
Horneck--
“Pray what is the story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room, my dear?”
When the members of the company learned that it was the great Dr. Samuel
Johnson who was roaring with laughter in the box, they were as much
amazed as they were encouraged. Colman, who had come upon the stage
out of compliment to Johnson, feeling that his position as an authority
regarding the elements of diversion in a play was being undermined in
the estimation of his company, remarked--
“Your friend Dr. Johnson will be a friend indeed if he comes in as
generous a mood to the first representation. I only hope that the
playgoers will not resent his attempt to instruct them on the subject of
your wit.”
“I don't think that there is any one alive who will venture to resent
the instruction of Dr. Johnson,” said Goldsmith quietly.
The result of this rehearsal and of the three rehearsals that followed
it during the week, was more than encouraging to the actors, and it
became understood that Woodward and Gentleman Smith were ready to admit
their regret at having relinquished the parts for which they had been
originally cast. The former had asked to be permitted to speak the
prologue, which Garrick had written, and, upon which, as he had told
Goldsmith, he had already given a hint or two to Woodward.
The difficulty of the epilogue, however, still remained. The one which
Murphy had written for Mrs. Bulkley was objected to by Miss Catley, who
threatened to leave the company if Mrs. Bulkley, who had been merely
thrust forward to take Mrs. Abington's place, were entrusted with the
epilogue; and, when Cradock wrote another for Miss Catley, Mrs. Bulkley
declared that if Miss Catley were allowed the distinction which she
herself had a right to claim, she would leave the theatre. Goldsmith's
ingenuity suggested the writing of an epilogue in which both the ladies
were presented in their true characters as quarreling on the subject;
but Colman placed his veto upon this idea and also upon another simple
epilogue which the author had written. Only on the day preceding
the first performance did Goldsmith produce the epilogue which was
eventually spoken by Mrs. Bulkley.
“It seems to me to be a pity to waste so much time discussing an
epilogue which will never be spoke,” sneered Colman when the last
difficulties had been smoothed over.
Goldsmith walked away without another word, and joined his party,
consisting of Johnson, Reynolds, Miss Reynolds, the Bunburys and Mary
Horneck. Now that he had done all his work connected with the production
of the play--when he had not allowed himself to be overcome by the
niggardly behaviour of the manager in declining to spend a single penny
either upon the dresses or the scenery, that parting sneer of Colman's
almost caused him to break down.
Mary Horneck perceived this, and hastened to say something kind to him.
She knew so well what would be truly encouraging to him that she did not
hesitate for a moment.
“I am glad I am not going to the theatre to-night,” she said; “my dress
would be ruined.”
He tried to smile as he asked her for an explanation.
“Why, surely you heard the way the cleaners were laughing at the humour
of the play,” she cried. “Oh, yes, all the cleaners dropped their
dusters, and stood around the boxes in fits of laughter. I overheard one
of the candle-snuffers say that no play he had seen rehearsed for years
contained such wit as yours. I also overheard another man cursing Mr.
Col-man for a curmudgeon.”
“You did? Thank God for that; 't is a great responsibility off my mind,”
said Goldsmith. “Oh, my dear Jessamy Bride, I know how kind you are, and
I only hope that your god-child will turn out a credit to me.”
“It is not merely your credit that is involved in the success of this
play, sir,” said Johnson. “The credit of your friends, who insisted on
Colman's taking the play, is also at stake.”
“And above all,” said Reynolds pleasantly, “the play must be a success
in order to put Colman in the wrong.”
“That is the best reason that could be advanced why its success is
important to us all,” said Mary. “It would never do for Colman to be in
the right. Oh, we need live in no trepidation; all our credits will be
saved by Monday night.”
“I wonder if any unworthy man ever had so many worthy friends,” said
Goldsmith. “I am overcome by their kindness, and overwhelmed with a
sense of my own unworthiness.”
“You will have another thousand friends by Monday night, sir,” cried
Johnson. “Your true friend, sir, is the friend who pays for his seat to
hear your play.”
“I always held that the best definition of a true friend is the man who,
when you are in the hands of bailiffs, comes to see you, but takes care
to send a guinea in advance,” said Goldsmith, and every one present knew
that he alluded to the occasion upon which he had been befriended by
Johnson on the day that “The Vicar of Wakefield” was sold.
“And now,” said Reynolds, “I have to prove how certain we are of the
future of your piece by asking you to join us at dinner on Monday
previous to the performance.”
“Commonplace people would invite you to supper, sir, to celebrate the
success of the play,” said Johnson. “To proffer such an invitation would
be to admit that we were only convinced of your worth after the public
had attested to it in the most practical way. But we, Dr. Goldsmith, who
know your worth, and have known it all these years, wish to show that
our esteem remains independent of the verdict of the public. On Monday
night, sir, you will find a thousand people who will esteem it an honour
to have you to sup with them; but on Monday afternoon you will dine with
us.”
“You not only mean better than any other man, sir, you express what
you mean better,” said Goldsmith. “A compliment is doubly a compliment
coming from Dr. Johnson.”
He was quite overcome, and, observing this, Reynolds and Mary Horneck
walked away together, leaving him to compose himself under the shelter
of a somewhat protracted analysis by Dr. Johnson of the character
of Young Marlow. In the course of a quarter of an hour Goldsmith had
sufficiently recovered to be able to perceive for the first time how
remarkable a character he had created.
On Monday George Steevens called for Goldsmith to accompany him to the
St. James's coffee-house, where the dinner was to take place. He found
the author giving the finishing touches to his toilet, his coat being a
salmon-pink in tint, and his waistcoat a pale yellow, embroidered
with silver. Filby's bills (unpaid, alas!) prevent one from making any
mistake on this point.
“Heavens!” cried the visitor. “Have you forgot that you cannot wear
colours?”
“Why not?” asked Goldsmith. “Because Woodward is to appear in mourning
to speak the prologue, is that any reason why the author of the comedy
should also be in black?”
“Nay,” said Steevens, “that is not the reason. How is it possible that
you forget the Court is in mourning for the King of Sardinia? That coat
of yours is a splendid one, I allow, but if you were to appear in it in
front of your box a very bad impression would be produced. I suppose you
hope that the King will command a performance.”
Goldsmith's face fell. He looked at the reflection of the gorgeous
garments in a mirror and sighed. He had a great weakness for colour in
dress. At last he took off the coat and gave another fond look at it
before throwing it over the back of a chair.
“It was an inspiration on your part to come for me, my dear friend,”
said he. “I would not for a good deal have made such a mistake.”
He reappeared in a few moments in a suit of sober grey, and drove with
his friend to the coffee-house, where the party, consisting of Johnson,
Reynolds, Edmund and Richard Burke, and Caleb Whitefoord, had already
assembled.
It soon became plain that Goldsmith was extremely nervous. He shook
hands twice with Richard Burke and asked him if he had heard that the
King of Sardinia was dead, adding that it was a constant matter for
regret with him that he had not visited Sardinia when on his travels. He
expressed a hope that the death of the King of Sardinia would not have
so depressing an effect upon playgoers generally as to prejudice their
enjoyment of his comedy.
Edmund Burke, understanding his mood, assured him gravely that he did
not think one should be apprehensive on this score, adding that it would
be quite possible to overestimate the poignancy of the grief which the
frequenters of the pit were likely to feel at so melancholy but, after
all, so inevitable an occurrence as the decease of a potentate whose
name they had probably never heard.
Goldsmith shook his head doubtfully, and said he would try and hope for
the best, but still....
Then he hastened to Steevens, who was laughing heartily at a pun of
Whitefoord's, and said he was certain that neither of them could have
heard that the King of Sardinia was dead, or they would moderate their
merriment.
The dinner was a dismal failure, so far as the guest of the party was
concerned. He was unable to swallow a morsel, so parched had his throat
become through sheer nervousness, and he could not be induced to partake
of more than a single glass of wine. He was evermore glancing at the
clock and expressing a hope that the dinner would be over in good time
to allow of their driving comfortably to the theatre.
Dr. Johnson was at first greatly concerned on learning from Reynolds
that Goldsmith was eating nothing; but when Goldsmith, in his
nervousness, began to boast of the fine dinners of which he had partaken
at Lord Clare's house, and of the splendour of the banquets which took
place daily in the common hall of Trinity College, Dublin, Johnson gave
all his attention to his own plate, and addressed no further word to
him--not even to remind him, as he described the glories of Trinity
College to his friend Burke, that Burke had been at the college with
him.
While there was still plenty of time to spare even for walking to the
theatre, Goldsmith left the room hastily, explaining elaborately that he
had forgotten to brush his hat before leaving his chambers, and he meant
to have the omission repaired without delay.
He never returned.