“I have the right as your oldest friend, Goldsmith; and you know I speak only what is true. Does your own conscience, your own intelligence, sir, not tell you that the lady's family would regard her acceptance of you as a lover in the light of the greatest misfortune possible to happen to her? Answer me that question, sir.”
But Goldsmith made no attempt to speak. He only buried his face in his hands, resting his elbows on the table at which he sat.
“You cannot deny what you know to be a fact, sir,” resumed Johnson. “I will not humiliate you by suggesting that the young lady herself would only be moved to laughter were you to make serious advances to her; but I ask you if you think her family would not regard such an attitude on your side as ridiculous—nay, worse—a gross affront.”
Still Goldsmith remained silent, and after a short pause his visitor resumed his discourse.
“The question that remains for you to answer is this, sir: Are you desirous of humiliating yourself in the eyes of your best friends, and of forfeiting their friendship for you, by persisting in your infatuation?”
Goldsmith started up.
“Say no more, sir; for God's sake, say no more,” he cried almost piteously. “Am I, do you fancy, as great a fool as Pope, who did not hesitate to declare himself to Lady Mary? Sir, I have done nothing that the most honourable of men would shrink from doing. There are the verses which I wrote—I could not help writing them—but she does not know that they were ever written. Dr. Johnson, she shall never hear it from me. My history, sir, shall be that of the hopeless lover—a blank—a blank.”
“My poor friend,” said Johnson after a pause—he had laid his hand upon the shoulder of his friend as he seated himself once more at the table—“My poor friend, Providence puts into our hands many cups which are bitter to the taste, but cannot be turned away from. You and I have drank of bitter cups before now, and perhaps we may have to drink of others before we die. To be a man is to suffer; to be a poet means to have double the capacity of men to suffer. You have shown yourself before now worthy of the admiration of all good men by the way you have faced life, by your independence of the patronage of the great. You dedicated 'The Traveller' to your brother, and your last comedy to me. You did not hesitate to turn away from your door the man who came to offer you money for the prostitution of the talents which God has given you. Dr. Goldsmith, you have my respect—you have the respect of every good man. I came to you to-day that you may disappoint those of your detractors who are waiting for you to be guilty of an act that would give them an opportunity of pointing a finger of malice at you. You will not do anything but that which will reflect honour upon yourself, and show all those who are your friends that their friendship for you is well founded. I am assured that I can trust you, sir.”
Goldsmith took the hand that he offered, but said no word.