“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.”