He felt that the result of his interview with Mary was to render more
mysterious than ever the question which he had hoped to solve.
He wondered if he was more clumsy of apprehension than other men, as he
had come away from her without learning her secret. He was shrewd
enough to know that the majority of men to whom he might give a detailed
account of his interview with the girl--a detailed account of his
observation of her upon the appearance of Captain Jackson first at the
Pantheon, then in the green room of Covent Garden--would have no trouble
whatever in accounting for her behaviour upon both occasions. He could
see the shrugs of the cynical, the head-shakings of those who professed
to be vastly grieved.
Ah, they did not know this one girl. They were ready to lump all
womankind together and to suppose that it would be impossible for one
woman to be swayed by other impulses than were common to womankind
generally.
But he knew this girl, and he felt that it was impossible to believe
that she was otherwise than good. Nothing would force him to think
anything evil regarding her.
“She is not as others,” was the phrase that was in his mind--the thought
that was in his heart.
He did not pause to reflect upon the strangeness of the circumstance
that when a man wishes to think the best of a woman he says she is not
as other women are.
He did not know enough of men and women to be aware of the fact that
when a man makes up his mind that a woman is altogether different from
other women, he loves that woman.
He felt greatly grieved to think that he had been unable to search out
the heart of her mystery; but the more he recalled of the incidents that
had occurred upon the two occasions when that man Jackson had been in
the same apartment as Mary Horneck, the more convinced he became that
the killing of that man would tend to a happy solution of the question
which was puzzling him.
After giving this subject all his thought for the next day or two, he
went to his friend Baretti, and presented him with tickets for one of
the author's nights for “She Stoops to Conquer.” Baretti was a
well known personage in the best literary society in London, having
consolidated his reputation by the publication of his English and
Italian dictionary. He had been Johnson's friend since his first exile
from Italy, and it was through his influence Baretti, on the formation
of the Royal Academy, had been appointed Secretary for Foreign
Correspondence. To Johnson also he owed the more remunerative
appointment of Italian tutor at the Thrales'. He had frequently dined
with Goldsmith at his chambers.
Baretti expressed himself grateful for the tickets, and complimented the
author of the play upon his success.
“If one may measure the success of a play by the amount of envy it
creates in the breasts of others, yours is a huge triumph,” said the
Italian.
“Yes,” said Goldsmith quickly, “that is just what I wish to have a word
with you about. The fact is, Baretti, I am not so good a swordsman as I
should be.”
“What,” cried Baretti, smiling as he looked at the man before him, who
had certainly not the physique of the ideal swordsman. “What, do you
mean to fight your detractors? Take my advice, my friend, let the pen be
your weapon if such is your intention. If you are attacked with the pen
you should reply with the same weapon, and with it you may be pretty
certain of victory.”
“Ah, yes; but there are cases--well, one never knows what may happen,
and a man in my position should be prepared for any emergency. I can
do a little sword play--enough to enable me to face a moderately good
antagonist. A pair of coxcombs insulted me a few days ago and I retorted
in a way that I fancy might be thought effective by some people.”
“How did you retort?”
“Well, I warned the passers-by that the pair were pickpockets disguised
as gentlemen.”
“Bacchus! An effective retort! And then----”
“Then I turned down a side street and half drew my sword; but, after
making a feint of following me, they gave themselves over to a bout
of swearing and went on. What I wish is to be directed by you to any
compatriot of yours who would give me lessons in fencing. Do you know of
any first-rate master of the art in London?”
The Italian could not avoid laughing, Goldsmith spoke so seriously.
“You would like to find a maestro who would be capable of turning you
into a first-rate swordsman within the space of a week?”
“Nay, sir, I am not unreasonable; I would give him a fortnight.”
“Better make it five years.”
“Five years?”
“My dear friend, I pray of you not to make me your first victim if I
express to you my opinion that you are not the sort of man who can be
made a good swordsman. You were born, not made, a poet, and let me tell
you that a man must be a born swordsman if he is to take a front
place among swordsmen. I am in the same situation as yourself: I am so
short-sighted I could make no stand against an antagonist. No, sir, I
shall never kill a man.”
He laughed as men laugh who do not understand what fate has in store for
them.
“I have made up my mind to have some lessons,” said Goldsmith, “and I
know there are no better teachers than your countrymen, Baretti.”
“Psha!” said Baretti. “There are clever fencers in Italy, just as there
are in England. But if you have made up your mind to have an Italian
teacher, I shall find out one for you and send him to your chambers. If
you are wise, however, you will stick to your pen, which you wield with
such dexterity, and leave the more harmless weapon to others of coarser
fiber than yourself.”
“There are times when it is necessary for the most pacific of men--nay,
even an Irishman--to show himself adroit with a sword,” said Goldsmith;
“and so I shall be forever grateful to you for your services towards
this end.”
He was about to walk away when a thought seemed to strike him.
“You will add to my debt to you if you allow this matter to go no
further than ourselves. You can understand that I have no particular
wish to place myself at the mercy of Dr. Johnson or Garrick,” said
he. “I fancy I can see Garrick's mimicry of a meeting between me and a
fencing master.”
“I shall keep it a secret,” laughed Baretti; “but mind, sir, when you
run your first man through the vitals you need not ask me to attend the
court as a witness as to your pacific character.”
(When the two did appear in court it was Goldsmith who had been called
as a witness on behalf of Baretti, who stood in the dock charged with
the murder of a man.)
He felt very much better after leaving Baretti. He felt that he had
taken at least one step on behalf of Mary Horneck. He knew his own
nature so imperfectly that he thought if he were to engage in a duel
with Captain Jackson and disarm him he would not hesitate to run him
through a vital part.
He returned to his chambers and found awaiting him a number of papers
containing some flattering notices of his comedy, and lampoons upon
Colman for his persistent ill treatment of the play. In fact, the topic
of the town was Colman's want of judgment in regard to this matter, and
so strongly did the critics and lampooners, malicious as well as genial,
express themselves, that the manager found life in London unbearable. He
posted off to Bath, but only to find that his tormentors had taken good
care that his reputation should precede him thither. His chastisement
with whips in London was mild in comparison with his chastisement with
scorpions at Bath; and now Goldsmith found waiting for him a letter from
the unfortunate man imploring the poet to intercede for him, and get the
lampooners to refrain from molesting him further.
If Goldsmith had been in a mood to appreciate a triumph he would have
enjoyed reading this letter from the man who had given him so many
months of pain. He was not, however, in such a mood. He looked for his
triumph in another direction.
After dressing he went to the Mitre for dinner, and found in the tavern
several of his friends. Cradock had run up from the country, and with
him were Whitefoord and Richard Burke.
He was rather chilled at his reception by the party. They were all
clearly ill at ease in his presence for some reason of which he was
unaware; and when he began to talk of the criticisms which his play had
received, the uneasiness of his friends became more apparent.
He could stand this unaccountable behaviour no longer, and inquired what
was the reason of their treating him so coldly.
“You were talking about me just before I entered,” said he: “I always
know on entering a room if my friends have been talking about me. Now,
may I ask what this admirable party were saying regarding me? Tell it to
me in your own way. I don't charge you to be frank with me. Frankness I
hold to be an excellent cloak for one's real opinion. Tell me all
that you can tell--as simply as you can--without prejudice to your own
reputation for oratory, Richard. What is the matter, sir?”
Richard Burke usually was the merriest of the company, and the most
fluent. But now he looked down, and the tone was far from persuasive in
which he said--
“You may trust--whatever may be spoken, or written, about you,
Goldsmith--we are your unalterable friends.”
“Psha, sir!” cried Goldsmith, “don't I know that already? Were you not
all my friends in my day of adversity, and do you expect me suddenly to
overthrow all my ideas of friendship by assuming that now that I have
bettered my position in the world my friends will be less friendly?”
“Goldsmith,” said Steevens, “we received a copy of the _London Packet_
half an hour before you entered. We were discussing the most infamous
attack that has ever been made upon a distinguished man of letters.”
“At the risk of being thought a conceited puppy, sir, I suppose I may
assume that the distinguished man of letters which the article refers to
is none other than myself,” said Goldsmith.
“It is a foul and scurrilous slander upon you, sir,” said Steevens. “It
is the most contemptible thing ever penned by that scoundrel Kenrick.”
“Do not annoy yourselves on my account, gentlemen,” said Goldsmith. “You
know how little I think of anything that Kenrick may write of me. Once
I made him eat his words, and the fit of indigestion that that operation
caused him is still manifest in all he writes about me. I tell you that
it is out of the power of that cur to cause me any inconvenience. Where
is the _Packet?_”
“There is no gain in reading such contemptible stuff,” said Cradock.
“Take my advice, Goldsmith, do not seek to become aware of the precise
nature of that scoundrel's slanders.”
“Nay, to shirk them would be to suggest that they have the power to
sting me,” replied Goldsmith. “And so, sir, let me have the _Packet_,
and you shall see me read the article without blenching. I tell you, Mr.
Cradock, no man of letters is deserving of an eulogy who is scared by a
detraction.”
“Nay, Goldsmith, but one does not examine under a magnifying glass the
garbage that a creature of the kennel flings at one,” said Steevens.
“Come, sirs, I insist,” cried Goldsmith. “Why do I waste time with you?”
he added, turning round and going to the door of the room. “I waste time
here when I can read the _Packet_ in the bar.”
“Hold, sir,” said Burke. “Here is the thing. If you will read it, you
would do well to read it where you will find a dozen hands stretched
forth to you in affection and sympathy. Oliver Goldsmith, this is the
paper and here are our hands. We look on you as the greatest of English
writers--the truest of English poets--the best of Englishmen.”
“You overwhelm me, sir. After this, what does it matter if Kenrick
flings himself upon me?”
He took the _Packet_. It opened automatically, where an imaginary letter
to himself, signed “Tom Tickle,” appeared.
He held it up to the light; a smile was at first on his features; he had
nerved himself to the ordeal. His friends would not find that he shrank
from it--he even smiled, after a manner, as he read the thing--but
suddenly his jaw fell, his face became pale. In another second he had
crushed the paper between his hands. He crushed it and tore it, and then
flung it on the floor and trampled on it. He walked to and fro in the
room with bent head. Then he did a strange thing: he removed his sword
and placed it in a corner, as if he were going to dine, and, without a
word to any of his friends, left the room, carrying with him his cane
only.