Dr. Johnson. [Very sternly, to Goldsmith.] How, sir! Am I to understand that your indebtedness to this good woman has covered a period of months? [Goldsmith opens his mouth as if to speak.] Never bandy words with me, sir! She must be paid, and at once!
Goldsmith. That's like your old kindness, Doctor, and I'll be sure to pay you when I get the next money from my old skinflint of a publisher.
Dr. Johnson. Not so fast, sir; not so fast! Keep your compliments until they are wanted. For my own guineas I can find worthier employment [glancing meaningly at the table], but you shall set your roving wits to work for the discharge of your debt to this poor woman here.
Goldsmith. But I can't so much as take a step without having that greasy fellow yonder hale me to prison, and no man can write there.
Dr. Johnson. Better men than you have written there, sir, and to the glory of England, too! But your foolish errands can be done for you. Have you scribbled nothing of late that you have not sold before it was finished? No verses? The last—I should be wiser than to tell you—were as sensible as their writer is foolish. Nothing? [Goldsmith shakes his head.] Nay, sit down and look through this heap of rubbish. [Pointing to the open drawer full of untidy manuscript.]
Goldsmith. [Looks blankly at the papers, picks up a ragged rôle, runs through the leaves rapidly, shakes his head, and looks up doubtfully.] I wonder would they give me anything for this? I'd completely forgot it. It's only a poor tale, though I liked it well enough when I wrote it. But I've nothing else.
Dr. Johnson. What sort of tale, sir? Is it a fable? Has it a moral?
Goldsmith. 'Tis about a clergyman and his family. I'd thought to call it “The Parson of Wakefield,” or some such name. I had my father, rest his soul, in mind when I wrote it; and I put in some of my own mad doings as well. There's comfort sometimes in setting down your own follies in print. It seems like a way of getting rid of them. They're not all so easy to get rid of, though, more's the pity!
Dr. Johnson. Here, sir! Cease maundering and let me look at your nonsense. [Settles his spectacles, sits down in an arm-chair, and begins to read.] “I was ever of the opinion that the honest man who married,” m—m—m—m. [Turning pages.] “The only hope of our family now was that the report of our misfortunes might be malicious or premature,” m—m—m—m. [Turning pages.] “I now began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment were entirely disregarded.” [Turns pages for a while, seizes his hat and stick, and stalks out without a word. Goldsmith stares at the Landlady in surprise; the children rush in.]
Margery. [Eagerly.] Oh, sir! Will the old gentleman help you? He said, “Thank you, my little mistress,” so kindly, when I picked up his stick just now, that I'm sure he's not a great bear, as Dick calls him.