It was a lie, and surely the most cruel and most objectless lie ever
uttered. Goldsmith was soon made aware of this. The laughter that
followed Tony Lumpkin's pretending to his mother that Mr. Hard-castle
was a highwayman was not the laugh of playgoers who have endured four
acts of a dull play; it was the laugh of people who have been in a good
humour for over two hours, and Goldsmith knew it. He perceived from
their laughter that the people in every part of the house were following
the comedy with extraordinary interest. Every point in the dialogue was
effective--the exquisite complications, the broad fun, the innumerable
touches of nature, all were appreciated by an audience whose expression
of gratification fell little short of rapture.
When the scene was being shifted Col-man left the stage and did not
return to it until it was his duty to come forward after the epilogue
was spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and announce the date of the author's night.
As soon as the manager had disappeared Goldsmith had a chance of
speaking to several of the actors at intervals as they made their exits,
and from them he learned the whole truth regarding the play: from the
first scene to the one which was being represented, the performance had
been a succession of triumphs, not only for the author, but for every
member of the company concerned in the production. With old dresses and
scenery familiar to all frequenters of the playhouse, the extraordinary
success of the comedy was beyond all question. The allusion to the
offensive terms of the Royal Marriage Act was especially relished by the
audience, several of the occupants of the pit rising to their feet and
cheering for some time--so much Goldsmith learned little by little at
intervals from the actors.
“I swore never to look on Colman as my friend again, and I'll keep my
word; he has treated me cruelly--more cruelly than he has any idea
of,” said Goldsmith to Lee Lewes. “But as for you, Mr. Lewes, I'll do
anything that is in my power for you in the future. My poor play owes
much to you, sir.”
“Faith then, sir,” cried Lewes, “I'll keep you to your word. My benefit
will take place in a short time; I'll ask you for a prologue, Dr.
Goldsmith.”
“You shall have the best prologue I ever wrote,” said Goldsmith.
And so he had.
When the house was still cheering at the conclusion of the epilogue,
Goldsmith, overcome with emotion, hurried into the green room. Mrs.
Abington was the first person whom he met. She held down her head,
and affected a guilty look as she glanced at him sideways through
half-closed eyes.
“Dr. Goldsmith,” she said in a tone modulated to a point of humility,
“I hope in your hour of triumph you will be generous to those who were
foolish enough to doubt the greatness of your work. Oh, sir, I pray
of you not to increase by your taunts the humiliation which I feel at
having resigned my part in your comedy. Believe me, I have been punished
sufficiently during the past two hours by hearing the words, which I
might have spoken, applauded so rapturously coming from another.”
“Taunts, my dear madam; who speaks of taunts?” said he. “Nay, I have a
part in my mind for you already--that is, if you will be good enough to
accept it.”
“Oh, sir, you are generosity itself!” cried the actress, offering him
both her hands. “I shall not fail to remind you of your promise, Dr.
Goldsmith.”
[Illustration: 0173]
And now the green room was being crowded by the members of the company
and the distinguished friends of the author, who were desirous of
congratulating him. Dr. Johnson's voice filled the room as his laughter
had filled the theatre.
“We perceived the reason of your extraordinary and unusual modesty, Dr.
Goldsmith, before your play was many minutes on the stage,” said he.
“You dog, you took as your example the Italians who, on the eve of Lent,
indulge in a carnival, celebrating their farewell to flesh by a feast.
On the same analogy you had a glut of modesty previous to bidding
modesty good-bye forever; for to-night's performance will surely make
you a coxcomb.”
“Oh, I hope not, sir,” said Goldsmith. “No, you don't hope it, sir,”
cried Johnson. “You are thinking at this moment how much better you are
than your betters--I see it on your face, you rascal.”
“And he has a right to think so,” said Mrs. Bunbury. “Come, Dr.
Goldsmith, speak up, say something insulting to your betters.”
“Certainly, madam,” said Goldsmith. “Where are they?”
“Well said!” cried Edmund Burke.
“Nay, sir,” said Johnson. “Dr. Goldsmith's satire is not strong enough.
We expected something more violent. 'Tis like landing one in one's back
garden when one has looked for Crackskull Common.”
His mighty laughter echoed through the room and made the pictures shake
on the walls.
Mary Horneck had not spoken. She had merely given her friend her hand.
She knew that he would understand her unuttered congratulations, and she
was not mistaken.
For the next quarter of an hour there was an exchange of graceful wit
and gracious compliment between the various persons of distinction in
the green room. Mrs. Thrale, with her usual discrimination, conceived
the moment to be an opportune one for putting on what she fondly
imagined was an Irish brogue, in rallying Goldsmith upon some of the
points in his comedy. Miss Kauffman and Signor Baretti spoke Italian
into Reynolds's ear-trumpet, and Edmund Burke talked wittily in the
background with the Bunburys.
So crowded the room was, no one seemed to notice how an officer in
uniform had stolen up to the side of Mary Horneck where she stood behind
Mr. Thrale and General Oglethorpe, and had withdrawn her into a corner,
saying a whispered word to her. No one seemed to observe the action,
though it was noticed by Goldsmith. He kept his eyes fixed upon the
girl, and perceived that, while the man was speaking to her, her eyes
were turned upon the floor and her left hand was pressed against her
heart.
He kept looking at her all the time that Mrs. Thrale was rattling out
her inanities, too anxious to see what effect she was producing upon the
people within ear-shot to notice that the man whom she was addressing
was paying no attention to her.
When the others as well ceased to pay any attention to her, she thought
it advisable to bring her prattle to a close.
“Psha! Dr. Goldsmith,” she cried. “We have given you our ears for more
than two hours, and yet you refuse to listen to us for as many minutes.”
“I protest, madam, that I have been absorbed,” said Goldsmith. “Yes, you
were remarking that----”
“That an Irishman, when he achieves a sudden success, can only be
compared to a boy who has robbed an orchard,” said the lady.
“True--very true, madam,” said he. He saw Mary Horneck's hands clasp
involuntarily for a moment as she spoke to the man who stood smiling
beside her. She was not smiling.
“Yes, 'tis true; but why?” cried Mrs. Thrale, taking care that her voice
did not appeal to Goldsmith only.
“Ah, yes; that's just it--why?” said he. Mary Horneck had turned away
from the officer, and was coming slowly back to where her sister and
Henry Bunbury were standing.
“Why?” said Mrs. Thrale shrilly. “Why? Why is an Irishman who has become
suddenly successful like a boy who has robbed an orchard? Why, because
his booty so distends his body that any one can perceive he has got in
his pockets what he is not entitled to.”
She looked around for appreciation, but failed to find it. She certainly
did not perceive any appreciation of her pleasantry on the face of the
successful Irishman before her. He was not watching Mary now. All his
attention was given to the man to whom she had been talking, and who had
gone to the side of Mrs. Abington, where he remained chatting with even
more animation than was usual for one to assume in the green room.
“You will join us at supper, Dr. Goldsmith?” said Mr. Thrale.
“Nay, sir!” cried Bunbury; “mine is a prior claim. Dr. Goldsmith agreed
some days ago to honour my wife with his company to-night.”
“What did I say, Goldy?” cried Johnson. “Was it not that, after the
presentation of the comedy, you would receive a hundred invitations?”
“Well, sir, I have only received two since my play was produced, and one
of them I accepted some days ago,” said the Irishman, and Mrs. Thrale
hoped she would be able to remember the bull in order to record it as
conclusive evidence of Goldsmith's awkwardness of speech.
But Burke, who knew the exact nature of the Irish bull, only smiled. He
laughed, however, when Goldsmith, assuming the puzzled expression of
the Irishman who adds to the humour of his bull by pretending that it is
involuntary, stumbled carefully in his words, simulating a man anxious
to explain away a mistake that he has made. Goldsmith excelled at this
form of humour but too well; hence, while the pages of every book that
refers to him are crowded with his brilliant saying's, the writers quote
Garrick's lines in proof--proof positive, mind--that he “talked like
poor Poll.” He is the first man on record who has been condemned solely
because of the exigencies of rhyme, and that, too, in the doggerel
couplet of the most unscrupulous jester of the century.
Mary Horneck seems to have been the only one who understood him
thoroughly. She has left her appreciation of his humour on record. The
expression which she perceived upon his face immediately after he had
given utterance to some delightful witticism--which the recording demons
around him delighted to turn against himself--was the expression which
makes itself apparent in Reynolds's portrait of him. The man who “talked
like poor Poll” was the man who, even before he had done anything in
literature except a few insignificant essays, was visited by Bishop
Percy, though every visit entailed a climb up a rickety staircase and
a seat on a rickety stool in a garret. Perhaps, however, the fastidious
Percy was interested in ornithology and was ready to put himself to
great inconvenience in order to hear parrot-talk.
While he was preparing to go with the Bunburys, Goldsmith noticed that
the man who, after talking with Mary Horneck, had chatted with Mrs.
Abington, had disappeared; and when the party whom he was accompanying
to supper had left the room he remained for a few moments to make his
adieux to the players. He shook hands with Mrs. Abington, saying--
“Have no fear that I shall forget my promise, madam.”
“I shall take good care that you don't, sir,” said she.
“Do not fancy that I shall neglect my own interests!” he cried, bowing
as he took a step away from her. When he had taken another step he
suddenly returned to her as if a sudden thought had struck him. “Why, if
I wasn't going away without asking you what is the name of the gentleman
in uniform who was speaking with you just now,” said he. “I fancy I have
met him somewhere, and one doesn't want to be rude.”
“His name is Jackson,” she replied. “Yes, Captain Jackson, though the
Lord only knows what he is captain of.”
“I have been mistaken; I know no one of that name,” said Goldsmith.
“'Tis as well I made sure; one may affront a gentleman as easily by
professing to have met him as by forgetting that one has done so.”
When he got outside, he found that Mary Horneck has been so greatly
affected by the heat of the playhouse and the excitement of the
occasion, she had thought it prudent to go away with the Reynoldses in
their coach--her mother had preceded her by nearly half an hour.
The Bunburys found that apparently the excitement of the evening had
produced a similar effect upon their guest. Although he admitted having
eaten no dinner--Johnson and his friends had been by no means reticent
on the subject of the dinner--he was without an appetite for the
delightful little supper which awaited him at Mrs. Bunbury's. It was
in vain too that his hostess showed herself to be in high spirits, and
endeavoured to rally him after her own delightful fashion. He remained
almost speechless the whole evening.
“Ah,” said she, “I perceive clearly that your Little Comedy has been
quite obscured by your great comedy. But wait until we get you down with
us at Barton; you will find the first time we play loo together that a
little comedy may become a great tragedy.”
Bunbury declared that he was as poor company during the supper as if his
play had been a mortifying failure instead of a triumphant success, and
Goldsmith admitted that this was true, taking his departure as soon as
he could without being rude.
He walked slowly through the empty streets to his chambers in Brick
Court. But it was almost daylight before he went to bed.
All his life he had been looking forward to this night--the night
that should put the seal upon his reputation, that should give him
an incontestable place at the head of the imaginative writers of his
period. And yet, now that the fame for which he had struggled with
destiny was within his grasp, he felt more miserable than he had ever
felt in his garret.