“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.