Never for a moment had Goldsmith felt jealous of the younger men
who were understood to be admirers of the Jessamy Bride. He had made
humourous verses on some of them, Henry Bunbury had supplied comic
illustrations, and Mary and her sister had had their laugh. He could not
even now feel jealous of Colonel Gwyn, though he knew that he was a more
eligible suitor than the majority whom he had met from time to time at
the Hornecks' house. He knew that since Colonel Gwyn had appeared the
girl had no thoughts to give to love and suitors. If Gwyn were to go
to her immediately and offer himself as a suitor he would meet with a
disappointment.
Yes; at the moment he had no reason to feel jealous of the man who
had just left him. On the contrary, he felt that he had a right to be
exultant at the thought that it was he--he--Oliver Goldsmith--who had
been entrusted by Mary Horneck with her secret--with the duty of saving
her from the scoundrel who was persecuting her.
Colonel Gwyn was a soldier, and yet it was to him that this knight's
enterprise had fallen.
He felt that he had every reason to be proud. He had been placed in a
position which was certainly quite new to him. He was to compass the
rescue of the maiden in distress; and had he not heard of innumerable
instances in which the reward of success in such, an undertaking was the
hand of the maiden?
For half an hour he felt exultant. He had boldly faced an adverse fate
all his life; he had grappled with a cruel destiny; and, though the
struggle had lasted all his life, he had come out the conqueror. He had
become the most distinguished man of letters in England. As Professor
at the Royal Academy his superiority had been acknowledged by the most
eminent men of the period. And then, although he was plain of face and
awkward in manner--nearly as awkward, if far from being so offensive, as
Johnson--he had been appointed her own knight by the loveliest girl in
England. He felt that he had reason to exult.
But then the reaction came. He thought of himself as compared with
Colonel Gwyn--he thought of himself as a suitor by the side of Colonel
Gwyn. What would the world say of a girl who would choose him in
preference to Colonel Gwyn? He had told Gwyn to survey himself in a
mirror in order to learn what chance he would have of being accepted
as the lover of a lovely girl. Was he willing to apply the same test to
himself?
He had not the courage to glance toward even the small glass which he
had--a glass which could reflect only a small portion of his plainness.
He remained seated in his chair for a long time, being saved from
complete despair only by the reflection that it was he who was entrusted
with the task of freeing Mary Horneck from the enemy who had planned her
destruction. This was his one agreeable reflection, and after a time it,
too, became tempered by the thought that all his task was still before
him: he had taken no step toward saving her.
He started up, called for a lamp, and proceeded to dress himself for the
evening. He would dine at a coffee house in the neighbourhood of Covent
Garden Theatre, and visit Mrs. Abington in the green room while his
play--in which she did not appear--was being acted on the stage.
He was unfortunate enough to meet Boswell in the coffee house, so that
his design of thinking out, while at dinner, the course which he should
pursue in regard to the actress--how far he would be safe in confiding
in her--was frustrated.
The little Scotchman was in great grief: Johnson had actually quarrelled
with him--well, not exactly quarrelled, for it required two to make
a quarel, and Boswell had steadily refused to contribute to such
a disaster. Johnson, however, was so overwhelming a personality in
Boswell's eyes he could almost make a quarrel without the assistance of
a second person.
“Psha! Sir,” said Goldsmith, “you know as little of Dr. Johnson as you
do of the Irish nation and their characteristics.”
“Perhaps that is so, but I felt that I was getting to know him,” said
Boswell. “But now all is over; he will never see me again.”
“Nay, man, cannot you perceive that he is only assuming this attitude in
order to give you a chance of knowing him better?” said Goldsmith.
“For the life of me I cannot see how that could be,” cried Boswell after
a contemplative pause.
“Why, sir, you must perceive that he wishes to impress you with a
consciousness of his generosity.”
“What, by quarrelling with me and declaring that he would never see me
again?”
“No, not in that way, though I believe there are some people who would
feel that it was an act of generosity on Dr. Johnson's part to remain
secluded for a space in order to give the rest of the world a chance of
talking together.”
“What does it matter about the rest of the world, sir?”
“Not much, I suppose I should say, since he means me to be his
biographer.”
Boswell, of course, utterly failed to appreciate the sly tone in which
the Irishman spoke, and took him up quite seriously.
“Is it possible that he has been in communication with you, Dr.
Goldsmith?” he cried anxiously.
“I will not divulge Dr. Johnson's secrets, sir,” replied Goldsmith, with
an affectation of the manner of the man who a short time before had said
that Shakespeare was pompous.
“Now you are imitating him,” said Boswell. “But I perceive that he has
told you of our quarrel--our misunderstanding. It arose through you,
sir.”
“Through me, sir?”
“Through the visit of your relative, the Dean, after we had dined at the
Crown and Anchor. You see, he bound me down to promise him to tell no
one of that unhappy occurrence, sir; and yet he heard that Garrick has
lately been mimicking the Dean--yes, down to his very words, at the
Reynolds's, and so he came to the conclusion that Garrick was made
acquainted with the whole story by me. He sent for me yesterday, and
upbraided me for half an hour.”
“To whom did you give an account of the affair, sir?”
“To no human being, sir.”
“Oh, come now, you must have given it to some one.”
“To no one, sir--that is, no one from whom Garrick could possibly have
had the story.”
“Ah, I knew, and so did Johnson, that it would be out of the question to
expect that you would hold your tongue on so interesting a secret. Well,
perhaps this will be a lesson to you in the future. I must not fail
to make an entire chapter of this in my biography of our great friend.
Perhaps you would do me the favour to write down a clear and as nearly
accurate an account as your pride will allow of your quarrel with the
Doctor, sir. Such an account would be an amazing assistance to posterity
in forming an estimate of the character of Johnson.”
“Ah, sir, am I not sufficiently humiliated by the reflection that my
friendly relations with the man whom I revere more than any living human
being are irretrievably ruptured? You will not add to the poignancy of
that reflection by asking me to write down an account of our quarrel in
order to perpetuate so deplorable an incident?”
“Sir, I perceive that you are as yet ignorant of the duties of the true
biographer. You seem to think that a biographer has a right to pick
and choose the incidents with which he has to deal--that he may, if he
please, omit the mention of any occurrence that may tend to show his
hero or his hero's friends in an unfavourable light. Sir, I tell you
frankly that your notions of biography are as erroneous as they are
mischievous. Mr. Boswell, I am a more conscientious man, and so, sir, I
insist on your writing down while they are still fresh in your mind the
very words that passed between you and Dr. Johnson on this matter, and
you will also furnish me with a list of the persons--if you have not
sufficient paper at your lodgings for the purpose, you can order a ream
at the stationer's at the corner--to whom you gave an account of the
humiliation of Dr. Johnson by the clergyman who claimed relationship
with me, but who was an impostor. Come, Mr. Boswell, be a man, sir; do
not seek to avoid so obvious a duty.”
Boswell looked at him, but, as usual, failed to detect the least gleam
of a smile on his face.
He rose from the table and walked out of the coffee house without a
word.
“Thank heaven I have got rid of that Peeping Tom,” muttered Goldsmith.
“If I had acted otherwise in regard to him I should not have been out of
hearing of his rasping tongue until midnight.”
(The very next morning a letter from Boswell was brought to him. It told
him that he had sought Johnson the previous evening, and had obtained
his forgiveness. “You were right, sir,” the letter concluded. “Dr.
Johnson has still further impressed me with a sense of his generosity.”)
But as soon as Boswell had been got rid of Goldsmith hastened to
the playhouse in order to consult with the lady who--through long
practice--was, he believed, the most ably qualified of her sex to give
him advice as to the best way of getting the better of a scoundrel. It
was only when he was entering the green room that he recollected he had
not yet made up his mind as to the exact limitations he should put upon
his confidence with Mrs. Abington.
The beautiful actress was standing in one of those picturesque attitudes
which she loved to assume, at one end of the long room. The second act
only of “She Stoops to Conquer” had been reached, and as she did not
appear in the comedy, she had no need to begin dressing for the next
piece. She wore a favourite dress of hers--one which had taken the town
by storm a few months before, and which had been imitated by every lady
of quality who had more respect for fashion than for herself. It was
a negligently flowing gown of some soft but heavy fabric, very low and
loose about the neck and shoulders.
“Ha, my little hero,” cried the lady when Goldsmith approached and made
his bow, first to a group of players who stood near the door, and then
to Mrs. Abington. “Ha, my little hero, whom have you been drubbing last?
Oh, lud! to think of your beating a critic! Your courage sets us all
a-dying of envy. How we should love to pommel some of our critics! There
was a rumour last night that the man had died, Dr. Goldsmith.”
“The fellow would not pay such a tribute to my powers, depend on't,
madam,” said Goldsmith.
“Not if he could avoid it, I am certain,” said she. “Faith, sir,
you gave him a pretty fair drubbing, anyhow.' Twas the talk of the
playhouse, I give you my word. Some vastly pretty things were said about
you, Dr. Goldsmith. It would turn your head if I were to repeat them
all. For instance, a gentleman in this very room last night said that it
was the first case that had come under his notice of a doctor's making
an attempt upon a man's life, except through the legitimate professional
channel.”
“If all the pretty things that were spoken were no prettier than that,
Mrs. Abington, you will not turn my head,” said Goldsmith. “Though, for
that matter, I vow that to effect such a purpose you only need to stand
before me in that dress--ay, or any other.”
“Oh, sir, I protest that I cannot stand before such a fusillade of
compliment--I sink under it, sir--thus,” and she made an exquisite
courtesy. “Talk of turning heads! do you fancy that actresses' heads are
as immovable as their hearts, Dr. Goldsmith?”
“I trust that their hearts are less so, madam, for just now I am
extremely anxious that the heart of the most beautiful and most
accomplished should be moved,” said Goldsmith.
“You have only to give me your word that you have written as good a
comedy as 'She Stoops to Conquer,' with a better part for me in it than
that of Miss Hardcastle.”
“I have the design of one in my head, madam.”
“Then, faith, sir, 'tis lucky that I did not say anything to turn your
head. Dr. Goldsmith, my heart is moved already. See how easy it is for a
great author to effect his object where a poor actress is concerned. And
you have begun the comedy, sir?”
“I cannot begin it until I get rid of a certain tragedy that is in the
air. I want your assistance in that direction.”
“What! Do you mistake the farce of drubbing a critic for a tragedy, Dr.
Goldsmith?”
“Psha, madam! What do you take me for? Even if I were as poor a critic
as Kenrick I could still discriminate between one and t' other. Can you
give me half an hour of your time, Mrs. Abington?”
“With all pleasure, sir. We shall sit down. You wear a tragedy face, Dr.
Goldsmith.”
“I need to do so, madam, as I think you will allow when you hear all I
have to tell you.”
“Oh, lud! You frighten me. Pray begin, sir.”
“How shall I begin? Have you ever had to encounter the devil, madam?”
“Frequently, sir. Alas! I fear that I have not always prevailed against
him as successfully as you did in your encounter with one of his
family--a critic. Your story promises to be more interesting than your
face suggested.”
“I have to encounter a devil, Mrs. Abington, and I come to you for
help.”
“Then you must tell me if your devil is male or female. If the former I
think I can promise you my help; if the latter, do not count on me. When
the foul fiend assumes the form of an angel of light--which I take to be
the way St. Paul meant to convey the idea of a woman--he is too powerful
for me, I frankly confess.”
“Mine is a male fiend.”
“Not the manager of a theatre--another form of the same hue?”
“Nay, dear madam, there are degrees of blackness.”
“Ah, yes; positive bad, comparative Baddeley, superlative Colman.”
“If I could compose a phrase like that, Mrs. Abington, I should be the
greatest wit in London, and ruin my life going from coffee house to
coffee house repeating it.”
“Pray do not tell Mrs. Baddeley that I made it, sir.”
“How could I, madam, when you have just told me that a she-devil was
more than you could cope with?”